


The Way You Burn

by miserylovedme



Series: Where the Light Never Reaches [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Revolutionary War, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserylovedme/pseuds/miserylovedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You saved me," Marshall corrects. He pulls Ian even closer, until it's harder to keep focus on Marshall's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I once used to write in bandom on lj under this name. Nothing has been edited since this work was originally posted, so please forgive any errors or potential grammar mistakes. decided to move the few stories worth keeping over here and delete my lj. If you used to read me back there, hello, again!
> 
> This story was coauthored with lj user: riflethrough. I have tried, to no avail, to locate her, and add her on as a coauthor here. If you know where I can contact her, or you are her, please let me know. I'd love to catch up! 
> 
> Original post date: 7.28.08

The first time William tries to talk Ian out of leaving he succeeds.

Ian’s been planning on it for a while, a couple years at least. He’s bored in England, grown tired of the scenery and the people; he wants a new challenge, new faces to choose from, a new place to wake up in. He wants a new _everything_.

Over the years William has moved him all around the continent when he gets like this. They started in London, when William found him, sired him, took him in, and traveled to France, Italy, Germany, parts of Russia, and somehow nothing has ever held Ian’s attention for too long.

William has been patient, more than willing to uproot his life to keep Ian with him; to keep Ian happy, doting on him, indulging him. But Ian wants more again and William finally stops budging.

“No,” he says. Ian waits for more but nothing else comes. No suggestion of leaving London again, after finally coming back a few years previous, for some other location, some new country they haven’t been yet. Nothing.

“No?” Ian tries, ducking his head down and catching William’s gaze when he lifts it from the book spread open on his lap.

He perks an eyebrow and looks back down, licking the tip of his finger and delicately turning the page. “No,” William repeats. When Ian doesn’t move, he sighs, tucking a torn piece of paper into the crease and closing the book. He tosses his hair back and motions Ian to take the chair opposite him. “Ian, have I not taken care of you?”

“Of course you have,” he says immediately.

William tilts his head to the side, smiling softly. “Whenever you get this itch under your skin I drop everything and find you a location more suitable to your satisfaction.” Ian doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his hands on either one of his thighs. “I like London, Ian. I don’t want to leave again. I’m not going to.” There’s a finality in his voice that makes Ian shift and look away. He doesn't even have to say that he was thinking of leaving on his own, William continues, voice soft, "You should stay."

William waits patiently until Ian nods and stands up, meeting his eyes. “All right,” he says. William squeezes his hand as he walks by.

 

\--

 

The second time William tries to talk Ian out of leaving he fails.

He sits on Ian’s bed watching him fold his clothes to pack them away, but he doesn’t lift a hand to help. Ian doesn’t say a word about it; he can’t, he doesn’t blame William.

It’s completely unspoken, the way William watches him, how he doesn’t want him to go. It’s not that William really _needs_ him, Ian knows, it’s that they’ve been together nearly every day since William turned him. He’s still young, not even a full century yet, but close. William is letting him go, he knows. He could keep him here if he wanted. It’s not unheard of, for their kind to keep their fledgling close, as companions or servants. He and William have been more, lovers even, on and off, but he’s practically crawling around inside of himself and there’s no hiding it from William.

He doesn’t argue when Ian takes things, packs them away, that William has given him, lavished upon him and should probably leave. He merely watches, blinking slowly as if he hasn’t fed at all. And Ian realizes he hasn’t.

He stops, placing a hand on either side of William’s neck, tilting his head up. “You should go out.”

“I’ll wait,” William says, turning his face into Ian’s palm and scraping his canine against it before standing up. He towers over Ian, but leans against him anyway. Ian holds on, burying his face in William’s chest. He may be ready to do this, but it doesn’t mean he’s completely fearless. “Across the ocean,” William murmurs into his hair, stroking the back of his head; it sounds like a song almost. Ian closes his eyes and listens. “You’re leaving me for the Colonies.”

“I’m not leaving for good,” Ian tells him, unable to pull away. “I’ll probably be back within the decade.”

William huffs a light laugh, pulling Ian’s head back by his hair and kissing his forehead. It lingers and Ian can feel it when his fangs descend. It makes his neck ache with a phantom throb that, by all rights, shouldn’t exist anymore. It’s almost comforting though.

“I’ve had a dream, Ian,” William practically whispers against his skin. Ian bristles instantly. William’s dreams are rarely wrong. “It’s not safe. Or it won’t be, I’m not entirely sure when.” Ian shakes his head and William works both hands into his hair. “You will be careful.”

Ian knows it should go without saying but he pulls back and says, “I will,” anyway.

William sighs, looking far away, before he drops his head and presses his lips to Ian’s. “Come home,” William tells him. Ian opens his mouth when William’s tongue brushes his lips and he clings to his elbows, leaning up onto the tips of his toes to return the force.

He knows he doesn’t have to promise.

 

\--

 

Ian stows away on a steamer ship, below the decks where the smell is almost enough to drive him to considering kidnapping one of the passengers and taking over their room. He endures it though, only killing one wane stick of a boy, someone that he thinks hardly anyone will ask after. He's right.

Stepping off the ship (or rather, sneaking off, as he was not a regular passenger after all), he's vibrating with excitement, exhilarated. It's always been this way for him, whenever he'd managed to convince William it was absolutely dire for them to relocate. He finds the people's speaking strangely different from the English in London, their intonation funny. He's able to replicate it after listening in on a conversation between a deckhand and a merchant man just off the dock.

He travels all through the city that first night, and garners quite a few strange looks from the few people out. He's still a bit peaked, clothes rumpled and dirt-streaked from his time under the ship. He decides to fix that right away, stealing into the first home he sees that seems even vaguely well-to-do. He flies up the stairs, ignoring the startled squeak of a servant from the other room. He takes a clean outfit from the closet in the master bedroom while a couple is still asleep in their bed, replacing it with his own dirty clothes. The clothes don't fit as well as he'd like—too loose some places, too tight in others—but he knows they will have to do for the time being. He leaves through the window.

It isn't until he's traveled to slightly darker parts of the province that something really catches his interest. Or that something really interests his sense of smell. He startled by it, turning in the middle of the walkway. He's just by a tavern and there are too many people entering and leaving for him to be able to tell who the scent belongs to. He's never smelled anything—anyone—like it and he can only think of it as tantalizing, intoxicating. His mouth waters imagining the person it might belong to, thinking of the way they would taste under him.

He blinks, coming back into himself as a burly man bumps into him, cursing him for his lack of movement. He finally follows the man inside the brewhouse. It is dimly lit inside, warm from a surprisingly large fire across the room. There are many men spread about, heads bent low as they talk, some with papers in their hands, and others loudly telling stories. It isn't unlike any other of its kind, really. Ian makes his way across the room, heading towards a dark, blessedly empty corner. He sits at the small table there, surveying the room through his hair, head tipped low. The person owning the scent is not in the room; he's sure of it.

He's startled when a very tall man drops into the chair across from him. The man is grinning widely, large limbs sprawling. He stinks of drink, but Ian can't actually tell if he's drunk with it.

"Hello," the man says, friendly enough. "This is my tavern. Welcome." The man punctuates this with a gesture, spreading his arms wide.

Ian tilts his head. "Then shouldn't you be manning the bar or something similar?"

The man laughs, throat bared as he drops his head back. Ian forces his eyes to the tabletop. He should feed soon. "I have been manning the bar and something similar all day. And now," he pauses, waving a hand around to seemingly indicate the whole room, "I am making friends with my guests. I don't believe I've seen you before. You are new, aren't you?"

"I am," Ian says.

"Where from?"

Ian has to pause here, wondering for a moment what he should give as an answer. He is from many places, could vouch for many different homes and lives he's lived over time. "Up north," he finally says, purposely vague.

The man raises an eyebrow, eyeing Ian for a moment. "Up north? How're things there?" He leans forward, conspiratorial. "It was only earlier today that I heard about all that nonsense with the closing of the Boston ports."

Ian hasn't a clue what all the nonsense with the closing of the Boston ports is about. He nods though, raising his own eyebrows as if he does. "Things are as well as can be expected."

"I guess you could say they brought it on themselves?" the man asks.

"Probably," Ian agrees.

The man nods back at him, as if the answer is acceptable. Ian smiles, and the man returns it. "I'm Gabriel Saporta."

"Ian Crawford," he says. What does it matter if he uses his real name or not?

"You are very pale, Mr. Crawford," Gabriel notes, as if he were talking to himself. "Goodness, boy, don't you ever see the sun?"

Ian licks his lips, narrowing his eyes a little. He looks away, across the room, and doesn't answer. He says, instead, "How much would a cup of ale cost me?"

"For you?" Gabriel grins. "Free the first time 'round. I like your face."

Ian's far too old to be blushing. He has to force the urge to down anyway. "Thank you. I think?"

"You thought right," Gabriel says, still grinning, as he stands up and heads for the bar. Ian's still not sure if he's drunk or not. His steps are steady enough, but Ian has never met a person that would speak so freely to anyone, let alone a stranger.

Once Gabriel has sat back down, sending a frothing cup across the tabletop towards him, Ian wonders what to make of this man. He's a strange character, to say the least.

"You're a strange character," Gabriel says. Ian can't help the smile he has at that, bringing the cup of ale to his lips to hide it. "I'm sorry, where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Ian says. He wonders if he should be worried. There's a look in the man's eyes, a look that says he's keen on an idea, and won't back down easily. Ian wonders if he could make it out of here without a fuss. He loathes the idea of having to kill some people on account of one man being too inquisitive. What Gabriel says next only makes him grim, the possibility looking more real with each passing moment.

"You're not from up north, are you?" Gabriel asks, leaning across the table. His voice is low, very low, but still, Ian glances at the others surrounding them. Gabriel is grinning, eyes alight with some realization. "You're one of them. My grandmother, may she rest in peace, used to tell me stories about your kind. Keep me up shaking in my bed half the night as a child. Never thought I'd see one of you."

Ian is surprised and lets it show. He asks, "My kind?"

Gabriel makes a strange stabbing gesture with two curved fingers. After a confused moment, Ian realizes he must mean fangs. His eyes widen.

"What are you doing here?" Gabriel's eyes darken for a moment. "You're not going to go about killing people, are you? 

Ian stares at him, bewildered almost. "How in the world did you figure it out?"

Gabe smiles again. "I took a wild stab in the dark. But your reaction gave you away."

Ian curses under his breath. Look at him, barely half a day in this new place on his own, and he's gone and revealed himself to a human that may or may not be a drunkard. Ian can just imagine William shaking his head at him, the frown that would mar his face.

"But," Gabriel continues, and Ian pays attention again, "if you did come here for some business to do with killing my customers, or even my townspeople, I would have to warn you against it. My grandmother also told me stories about how to end your kind, not just spot them."

Ian barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. Ian doubts he would be a threat, unless he caught Ian sleeping. "A man has to eat," Ian says softly.

Gabriel does roll his eyes. "But do you really have to drain a person for it, though? I imagine you don't need _that_ much to survive."

Ian tips his cup to his mouth again, looking at Gabriel through his lashes. "But where's the fun in that?" He's only joking, a little.

Gabriel barks a laugh, hand slapping the tabletop. His smile is dark, eyes too, and Ian reconsiders him not being much of a threat. "I wouldn't know. Have you got a place to stay? Keep out of the light?"

Ian glances around again suspiciously, but no one seems to be minding them at all, really. "No, I haven't."

"Well," Gabriel says, and straightens in his seat. "You can stay in the back room. There are no windows there, you'd be safe. But I hope you don't plan on killing me in my sleep or when my back is turned."

Ian says, "I wouldn't do that to someone who’s paid me the kindness you have." And he means it.

Gabriel smiles once more, rapping against the top of the table with his knuckles. "Good," he says decisively.

 

\--

 

Ian has been in the New World for a full week, taking in the sights, strange new smells, the sounds, restricting himself to eating only every other day because Gabriel eyes him up and down every evening when he returns to the tavern with a look of suspicion and hopefully-not misplaced trust. He can’t bring himself to kill anyone just yet, only taking what he needs. It leaves him a little slower than usual, a little homesick when he hides himself away every dawn to sleep.

He misses William in a way that makes his chest ache and his neck throb. He hasn’t ever been away from him, not like this, not with this distance, and it’s proving to be harder than he had originally imagined. He wonders if William thinks about him too, hopes he does. But then, Ian figures, when he stretches himself out every dusk, that he can go home any time he wants. If things don’t work out then he can be back in London with William in a couple weeks.

Ian wakes, works his jaw open in a yawn, rolling his neck until it cracks. His head aches worse than it has since he left England; his mouth sore and a little swollen on the inside, his fangs more prone to descending without the stimulation of seeing or smelling blood. It’s worrisome, hasn’t ever happened before. He brings tentative fingers up to touch his gums, hisses and pulls back when they sting, make his eyes water. He attributes it to not feeding enough. Well tonight he’s going to take care of that, the worried looks Gabriel gives him be damned.

He pulls open the door, stepping out, floorboards silent under his weight, even though every step Gabriel takes creaks, would alert Ian to his presence even if he couldn’t smell his heartbeat from a room away.

Ian purposefully makes sound, knowing Gabriel is just around the corner, stocking bottles and glasses, preparing for the evening.

“Good morning,” Gabriel tells him, turning around with a smile that falls away quickly. “What’s wrong with your face?”

Ian’s eyes narrow and he has to run his tongue over the edges of his teeth to keep his fangs where they are. “Nothing is wrong with my face.” Ian turns away, heading for the door.

Gabriel is tense behind him, the desire to speak almost tangible in the air. But he says nothing and Ian doesn’t wait for him to give voice to his thoughts. He pulls open the door and steps down into the street.

The night here is different. It smells dry and more earthen than in London. He stops outside, watching as several people pass by in front of him, not affording him a glance. Tension is thick and Ian wants to open his mouth, breathe it in like a serpent. William was right about this; conflict crackles through the air like a static charge and it excites him almost as much as it makes him want to leave and go home.

Then a man about his own height, if a little taller, walks past, looking surly and not at all pleasant company, with a suit that speaks of a heavy pocketbook and Ian follows. It’s about time he had new clothes of his own and a meal that filled him to his content.

 

\--

 

Ian is practically humming as he walks down a street several over from where the tavern is. He still doesn’t venture too far yet, getting used to his new surroundings and the people he knows he can’t risk feeding from. This street is brighter, more people are about, laughing and talking and _alive_. It makes Ian’s mouth water again even though he’s completely sated.

He keeps his hand in his pocket, rolling a coin between his fingers. The man had been well off indeed. More than Ian had expected. He’ll have Gabriel assist him in finding a tailor that will work during the night.

Ian licks his lips for the umpteenth time, excited and wary all at once. He hasn’t so much as scented another vampire since arriving in port, but the back of his neck prickles every once in a while and he’s not foolish enough to let his guard down entirely.

He’s just rounded the street that will lead him back towards Gabriel’s when he smells it again. His throat goes dry and he reaches out, touching his fingertips to the building he’s beside; it almost doubles him over. That person, that _human_ he’d scented on his first night is back, nearby and _so_ so much stronger with less people on the side-street.

Ian claps his free hand over his mouth when his fangs slide out. He feels empty, hungry again almost instantly. He needs to track it down, this human. Ian stops, sniffing the air. It’s masculine, definitely, fairly young, younger than Gabriel, sweet and harsh on his senses. Ian groans inwardly, taking a step forward and sniffing again. He’s downwind, they’re heading the same way he is.

In an instant he’s on the street again, feet pacing faster as he closes in, his eyes darting to everyone around him; he still can’t single him out. He follows it, eyes nearly shut as he rounds the corner onto the street he’s been calling home. He knows if his heart still beat it would be pounding in his chest, his knees feel like they’re going to give out from under him; it’s almost pleasurable how much it makes him _feel_.

The scent gets stronger and stronger until he stops at a door.

Its lead him to the tavern.

Ian pauses with his hand on the door. He swallows away the tension and pushes inside. There are a lot of people around, many sitting near the fire, several at the tables along the walls, everyone talking, but the sound isn’t too loud. Ian focuses, ignoring the look Gabriel gives him from near the bar. The door closes audibly behind him but he blocks it out. He picks out heartbeats, forces aside the smells of everyone and everything else until he turns his head and there he is.

Towards the back, alone at the table Ian himself had sat at with Gabriel his first night in the Colonies, holding a mug in front of him, but seemingly uninterested. He stares down at the table, the fringe of his hair swept over his forehead, worrying at the corner of his lip.

Ian was right, he thinks as he steps towards him, weaving through people with his eyes pinned on this man, this _boy_ , he’s very young.

He’s almost set his hand down atop a vacant chair back when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him away.

“Mister Crawford, what brings you in tonight?” Gabriel. Ian turns at the same time the young man seated beside them looks up to watch the exchange.

Ian resists the instinctive urge to bare his teeth. Instead he pats Gabriel on the back a little harder than he should. “Just looking for entertainment.” Gabriel’s eyes narrow just slightly and Ian turns to gesture towards the young man beside them. “See if I might share the lad’s table.”

He laughs a little and Ian feels his throat go even drier than before. “What have you brought to your home, Gabriel?”

Ian’s palms begin to sweat a little; he separates himself from the body beside him and wipes them as subtly as he can on the insides of his pockets. Gabriel watches him before turning back and saying, “Master Marshall, let me get you a refill.”

Gabriel reaches for his glass and Marshall stops him with a hand on his wrist. “I might like to know your friend’s name before he sits with me.”

Gabriel stops, presses his palm to the table before righting himself with a smile and gesturing back to Ian. “This is Crawford, he’s from up near Boston.”

Marshall turns to look at him. “Boston? Have you news about the Harbor? We haven’t heard much.”

Ian plays calm well. He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t. I’m just as ignorant on the subject as everyone here.”

Marshall eyes him a moment before gesturing him to sit. “Why don’t you join us, Gabriel?”

When he opens his mouth to reply there comes a loud crash from somewhere overhead and Gabriel mutters a curse under his breath. “I’ll be back,” he says before hurrying off.

Suddenly alone with Marshall, Ian’s head feels like it’s swelling with the sweetness of his scent. It’s overpowering, too strong and too much and he just wants to drag him outside; somewhere they can be alone so he can smell nothing but this young man. Hold him down and—“Crawford then?”

Ian almost shakes himself visibly back into reality. “I’m sorry?”

“Crawford is it?” he repeats.

“Oh, yes. Ian Crawford.”

“Alex Marshall,” he says, holding out a thin hand, veins visible around his wrist and knuckles, his skin tan and rough on his fingers. Ian swallows back the overflow of saliva at the sight, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. The stark contrast between their skin tones is remarkable in the light from the nearby fire. “Are you sickly, Mister Crawford?”

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing to worry about. And please, Ian.”

“Ian, then,” Marshall nods, sitting back and rotating his mug between his hands. “Wonder what’s keeping Gabriel.”

Ian glances up and then back at Marshall. “I’m sure he’ll be back, Alex.”

“I prefer Marshall,” comes the reply. Ian turns his head to the side slightly, eyes roaming over the smooth-looking curve of his neck and up to his face. “Alex is my father.”

“Ahh,” Ian says. He waits.

“He’s dead.”

Ian curls his hand against the table and nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Gabriel doesn’t come back. And Marshall drinks and drinks, his mood even more somber than when Ian had first walked in. His scent fades slightly with the alcohol but he’s as sweet as ever when Ian opens his mouth to breathe it in.

It isn’t long before Marshall stands, bumping his chair back and placing a hand on the tabletop to steady himself. His face is flushed and his eyes are watery; he smiles too much. “I think… I should be heading home.”

Ian stands as well, reaching out to touch Marshall’s arm as he pulls his jacket from the chair back. “You might not make it at this rate.”

Marshall tips his head back a little too far and stumbles a step; Ian steadies him. “I’ll be fine, thank you, Mister Crawford,” he gestures with his head to Ian’s hand on his arm, “and you maybe keep your perspirations to yourself.”

Ian grins inwardly and pulls Marshall even closer. “At least let me head you in the right direction.”

Marshall doesn’t fight him on it so Ian turns and leads him through the crowd towards the door. Marshall points down the street and starts walking. Ian doesn’t let go.

 

\--

 

The way to Marshall's home isn't very well-lit, as it has gotten later in the night than Ian had thought and people have doused out most of the street lamps. Ian keeps an eye on their surroundings, wary. He imagines this would be prime time for any predators to come out and have at anyone brave enough to still be outside. And if Marshall smells half as good to anyone else as he does to Ian, then well. Ian can't say that he would blame someone for trying.

Marshall stumbles, tripping over thin air. If it weren't for Ian's hand on his elbow, he surely would've gone down in the dirt. Marshall laughs darkly. "It seems I let the drink get the best of me," he mumbles.

The houses and buildings surrounding them seem to thin out, less and less appearing until they are walking along a small road. Ian thinks he can see Marshall home up ahead, large and looming, forbidding looking walls surrounding it.

"I believe you have more than headed me in the right direction, Mister Crawford," Marshall says, doing his best to straighten. He stops walking, looking down his nose at Ian.

Well, he tries to. Ian doesn't stop moving forward, and Marshall ends being almost falling back again as he's almost dragged forward. "Now, now," Ian says, "you can't possibly expect me to leave you anywhere other than at your front door in the state you're in."

"Wiry little fellow, aren't you," Marshall mutters under his breath, twisting his arm in Ian's grip. "You don't look like much."

Ian turns to Marshall, eyebrow cocked. Marshall flushes and begins to stammer. Ian shouldn't find it half as endearing as he does. "I only meant that, well," he manages to get out, "you're quite pale, and very small."

Ian looks forward once more, can't really help the way his mouth twitches in amusement. "So you are the head of your house, am I correct?"

Marshall seems surprised by the change of subject, blinking at him for a moment. "Yes, I am."

Ian keeps his eyes in front of him when he asks, "No other family, really?"

He can smell it when Marshall becomes uncomfortable, scent sharp, if the way he tenses under Ian's hand weren't sign enough. "Very curious, aren't you?"

Ian smiles. "I am."

Marshall's brow is furrowed with either puzzlement, or consternation. "No other family," he replies shortly.

"Must be lonely, I imagine," Ian says. He nods at the house in front of them. "All that space for one young man."

Marshall tries to twist his arm out of Ian's grip again and nearly goes sprawling to the ground once more. He curses, trying to yank away from Ian as Ian pushes open the front gate. Marshall is still inebriated, movement all sluggish and too-slow, though, not to mention Ian's unnatural strength; the struggling gets him nowhere.

"Careful, Marshall," Ian warns. He wraps his other hand around Marshall's other bicep, turning and walking him backwards until his back is pressed to the stone wall surrounding the property. Marshall’s eyes widen, lips parting, and Ian shushes him. Marshall's heart is beating too fast, pulse visible at his throat. He smells absolutely sweet, enough so to make Ian's mouth water, his fangs descend.

He presses forward, his face going to Marshall's neck. He inhales deeply, nearly moaning as Marshall's scent fills his head. Marshall is rigid where Ian touches his body, as Ian closes the space between them completely. His tongue flicks out to lick at Marshall's fluttering pulse.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Mister Crawford?" Marshall whispers, hands coming up to cup Ian's elbows, as if he doesn't realize what he's doing.

As an answer, Ian sinks his teeth in. Marshall hisses, face turning away. Ian pins him to the wall by his hands on Marshall's shoulder.

It's too perfect, the taste of Marshall's blood on his tongue. Unlike any other person's he's tasted in all his time, richer and, just _more_ , more of everything. He sucks gently, mouth closed around the punctures, tongue lapping to keep the blood leaving the wounds. The taste of Marshall is heady, and he thinks, _knows_ he could get drunk from this, which is just so strange, unusual. Ian feels his cock filling with blood, hardening inside of his breeches.

Marshall has been making small, distressed sounds, hands balling into fists against Ian's shoulders, pushing weakly. Ian strokes the side of his face clumsily, humming against Marshall's neck. He finds himself rubbing against Marshall's hip, pushing forward rhythmically. Marshall's hand slides over his neck, pushing up until it’s in Ian's hair, clenching a fist into it. Ian moans then, cock pulsing.

Marshall sags against the wall suddenly, body becoming limp. Ian holds him up easily, forcing his mouth to break from Marshall's skin. He laves his tongue over the tiny punctures there, over and over, until the only wetness left is from his own tongue. Ian eases back slightly and Marshall slides down the wall, his eyes closed and breathing harsh. Ian steps away, his own breathing unsteady. He feels dizzy.

"My god," Marshall says faintly. A smile plays about his mouth, his head tipping forward until his chin almost touches his chest. "The strangest feeling," he mumbles, fingers touching his neck lightly.

"Delirious," Ian whispers. He can't stop licking his lips.

There's sudden noise behind Ian and he doesn't even need to think about it before he's darting forward, through the gate and back around the wall. He can hear it, smell it, as another person leaves the house, walks towards Marshall.

"Master Marshall?" the unknown person calls.

"Cash," Marshall says happily. "You wouldn't believe what happened, friend. I feel very unusual."

Cash sighs loudly. "I see you've been to Saporta's tavern again." There are shuffling sounds as, Ian assumes, Cash helps Marshall up. "Couldn't even make it to the door this time," Cash mutters, voice strained.

Ian stays, lurking behind the wall until he hears the heavy door close shut, until he knows they're inside the house. And he walks all the way back to the tavern on slightly unsteady feet, still straining against the front of his breeches. He doesn't touch himself at all, not until he's stumbled past Gabriel's worried gaze, through the mostly empty bar, and falls onto his cot in the back room.

 

\--

 

Ian wakes up in the middle of the day, he can tell without the aid of windows and shadows. His head feels heavy, his eyelids hard to keep open as he props himself up on his elbow and tries to figure out what woke him. It’s easy to sense Gabriel beside him once he notices the sharpened piece of wood he has clenched in his fist.

Ian jolts back, slamming into the wall, panting harshly. His eyes fall on Gabriel’s hand and then to his face. “What betrayal is this?” His pulse is icy and thick in his chest—were it not for the fear he would forget altogether that his heart still beats.

“No betrayal,” Gabriel says, leaning down over him. Ian presses himself further back; it’s pure instinct. “What did you do to the Marshall boy?”

“Nothing,” Ian spits immediately.

“Liar,” Gabriel says, taking a step closer.

If Ian were any closer to the wall he’d be leaving a permanent impression of himself. “I fed from him,” he pants, eyes focused on Gabriel’s wrist.

“You _fed_ from him?” His hand tightens. “Is he still in one piece or shall I call for an investigation to locate his missing parts?”

Ian would laugh if he weren’t so busy tasting Gabriel’s emotions on the air. He’s angry and afraid and Ian can’t stop breathing it in. “He’s still in one piece,” Ian says, looking up to meet Gabriel’s eyes.

He hesitates a moment and Ian lunges forward, knocking Gabriel down and quickly pinning his wrists to the floor. The smell of fear floods Ian’s senses, heady enough to almost make him jump right off, but he holds on, grip tight; he can feel Gabriel’s pulse through his fingertips.

Still, Gabriel manages to look defiant. “One _living_ piece?”

Ian sneers. “Alive and well, a little light headed and babbling to that _Cash_ fellow who interrupted us.” Gabriel blinks up at him. “He’s probably sleeping it off, as I should be.” Ian lifts up and off of him instantly and Gabriel blinks at the movement. He’s fast and a lot stronger than Gabriel has obviously given him credit for.

Ian offers his hand; Gabriel takes it and Ian pulls him to his feet. They stare at one another before Ian pulls back and rubs hard at his eyes. He’s so tired.

“Stay away from Marshall.”

Ian nearly snorts into his own hand before resting his cheek against his palm and gazing across the distance at Gabriel. “I mean him no harm.”

“You drank his _blood_ last night.”

“And it was _divine_ but I prefer him alive.”

Gabriel seems stopped in his tracks at that. He hesitates before asking, “For what?”

“My reasons are my own, Gabriel. Rest assured I mean neither Master Marshall nor yourself any detriment towards your mortality. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should like to be alone again.” Ian doesn’t wait for Gabriel to respond, he merely returns to his bed on the floor and turns his back.

Gabriel is quiet when he closes the door.

 

\--

 

Ian leaves as soon as the sun has set, the sky still streaked pink and orange. Gabriel doesn’t stop him but he can hear the worry in the way his heart races as Ian pulls the door open. It’s still a little light out, but the most it will do is make his skin itch. Dusk is one of his favorite times of the night. Ian spares him a small smile over his shoulder and closes the door behind him.

It’s damp, the street more mud than anything else. He glances up to the sky, breathing deeply; it’ll rain soon, probably within the hour. He has to find a meal fast.

There’s hardly anyone outside, thunder rumbles in the distance and Ian curses quietly. It’s not as though he hasn’t just fed the night before, on two people, but being awakened during his sleep has left him feeling fatigued and shaky. Feeding will help.

He stretches his jaw and rotates his neck. He’s sore all over and he can feel the way his hands shake at his sides; he stuffs them into his jacket pockets and walks faster.

Ian finds a woman several streets over who looks like she could spare a pint of blood. Or several. Or all of it really, Ian’s not feeling picky. He drags her into an alley and holds her to the wall, hand over her mouth, sucking at her neck. It doesn’t taste a thing like Marshall. He doesn’t get hard, he doesn’t enjoy it beyond the way it soothes his hunger. It just doesn’t feel _good_ the way it did last night and he drains her entirely, searching for more, for whatever it was that happened last night, but it doesn’t come before her heart stops and he places her face down in a puddle when he leaves.

He’s irritable, grumbling inwardly as he stalks down the street. The first few drops of rain pelt down on him and he ducks inside the first door he comes to. There are several people inside but he smells it instantly; _Marshall_.

His mouth waters and he turns his back towards a wall lined with bags of flour and concentrates hard to keep his fangs where they are. Marshall is in here somewhere.

He turns carefully, walking slowly past a shelf of jarred preserves and peeking around the corner. Marshall is there with another young man, taking a bag from the counter as the other man takes two. Ian waits a moment before he follows them back outside.

Marshall sighs loudly and Ian feels his skin prickle.

“We should have done this earlier,” the other man says as the rain pelts down harder.

“I know that, Cash,” Marshall grumbles. Ian finds himself grinding his teeth. _This_ is Cash? This man who came from Marshall’s house when Marshall said he was alone? “Hurry, I don’t want my horses out in the rain.”

Cash seems to laugh a little but Ian maintains his spot in the street, watching as they round the corner behind the building. He finds himself digging his fingers into his palms, his mood beyond foul. He turns and darts quickly down a narrow alley between buildings; he means to get back to Gabriel’s as soon as possible.

 

\--

 

“You’re in early,” Gabriel tells him, sinking down into a chair opposite him.

Ian shakes out his hair, still damp from the rain. “So I am.” Gabriel makes a sound at him but doesn’t speak. Ian tries to wait him out on it but gives into his curiosity a few minutes later. “The Marshall boy,” Gabriel looks up at him, questioning and warning all at once, “who is the man with him, that Cash fellow?”

Gabriel sits back, silent still, tapping his fingertips against the table. Ian waits this time. “Why does it matter?” he finally asks, voice slow and suspicious.

Ian doesn’t bother lying. “I saw them out today. They couldn’t be brothers, Master Marshall said he lives alone and yet I heard that boy come out of his home last night.”

“What were you doing at Marshall’s home?” Gabriel leans forward and Ian suddenly wants to upturn the table in his anger.

“You’ve not responded to a single question of mine, don’t presume I’ll answer yours.”

Gabriel taps his fingers more rapidly against the wooden table and licks his lips before looking at Ian. “Marshall has no family. Cassius, Cash if you were to know him, is his companion.”

Ian has known of these sorts of companions before, has been one, but it has also always held a sexual connotation and he finds himself bristling at the insinuation from his own experience. “Meaning?”

“He lives with him, keeps him company, takes care when Marshall forgets things.”

“Like what?”

“Why does it matter?” Ian glances away and Gabriel waits a beat before asking again, “What were you doing at Master Marshall’s home?”

Ian looks him in the eye and bares his teeth in a way that makes Gabriel’s eyes widen. “Oh please,” Ian waves him off with an unamused hand, “he was walking around today with his _manservant_ , I clearly didn’t do him lingering harm.”

Gabriel shakes his head, looking back at the bar and then at Ian again. “Just make sure it stays that way.”

“What is your personal investment in him?”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow and Ian feels as though he’s come across something. “Excuse me?”

“What makes you so determined that I don’t touch him?”

“You’ll watch your words with me, Mister Crawford,” Gabriel warns, pushing his chair back. “His father was a friend of mine, I want to see his son above ground as long as I am.”

Ian stands after him, as unthreatening as he can. “I see.” He straightens his jacket and looks up at Gabriel. “I’ve told you once I prefer him alive. That hasn’t changed.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Ian doesn’t respond, merely waits for Gabriel to head back towards the bar before making his way to the back room. He’s not going out again tonight.

 

\--

 

Once Ian learns Marshall’s night habits he’s easy to follow. Some evenings, if he’s not at the tavern, he’s out along the shore further south, Cash at his side, or wandering the streets alone. He never seems to have much purpose, but he’s rarely at home before midway through the evening. Ian wonders what repels him from his bed, why he can’t find sleep easily. He makes it a habit of wondering, watching and lurking just beyond where Marshall’s human eyes can see.

He often catches him turning around, gazing in his direction but unable to pin him down among whatever shadows play in the moonlight. He doesn’t hide himself in the tavern, he watches Marshall openly there, it’s his ground to do so. He knows Marshall sees him here, often looks up to find him watching him.

The more he does it, the more of a pattern it develops into, the more Cash starts coming out with Marshall; as though Marshall is telling Cash these things. How he senses someone watching him, with him, how it makes his skin crawl. Ian delights in these thoughts, the idea of Marshall thinking about him. It makes him hard and he often eases a hand down the front of his breeches every dawn when he retires to his room in the back of the tavern to bring himself off on the notion.

He knows it’s unsettling, likes that about it as much as he despises the fact that he’s become obsessed. But, at the same time, he can’t seem to stop.

 

\--

 

Marshall gets drunk again, slumped over a table in the middle of the room, babbling about something or other to Cash sitting across from him. Cash watches him, an unhappy tilt to his mouth, only nursing one cup of ale for the whole of the night. Ian sprawls in his chair at the small table in the corner of Gabriel's tavern that he has come to think of as his own. He rarely ever finds anyone sitting at it, and he wonders if he himself has anything to do with that.

"I'm haunted," Marshall tells the scratched tabletop. Ian's ears perk, straining to listen across the room.

"You're drunken," Cash corrects, hardly looking at Marshall. He's looking about the room, watching the other people talk and interact.

"No," Marshall says sharply. "I can feel it, even now. _Someone_ or _something_ keeps watching me, I know what I feel."

Cash finally looks at him and they share a look across the table. Cash deflates a little, sighing. He raises his eyebrows at Marshall. "Maybe you should tell me about it when you haven't drank half of Gabriel's stock, and I'll try to listen then."

Marshall relaxes a little too, bringing his mostly empty cup to his lips. "I _did_ try to tell you before," he mumbles, half of it lost into his cup as if he forgot to finish the sentence before trying to take a drink.

Marshall raises a loose hand in Gabriel's direction, gesturing to his empty cup. Cash negates the gesture when Marshall isn't looking, cutting a hand across his throat. Gabriel acknowledges Cash with a nod and a half-smile. The smile Cash then aims at Marshall when he turns back in his seat is one of fond exasperation. Ian feels that sour curl in his belly once more, fingers clenching under the bottom of the table.

"How about we get you home now?" Cash asks. He stands, taking his jacket from the back of the chair and slipping it on.

Marshall protests, waving Cash away. Cash still manages to get Marshall standing and back into his coat, as if he's done it a million times before. Marshall looks confused, tugging at his own shirttails, but he still follows Cash from the room.

"But can we make it by the shore first?" Marshall asks as he walks through the doorway.

"And have you accidentally drown yourself?" Cash responds. Ian can't help the smile he has at that. "I don't think so."

Then they're gone, out of Ian's earshot. He waits a few moments, downing the rest of his drink before he stands and shrugs on his own coat. It's not even a conscious choice he's made to follow them home tonight and he would almost be surprised at himself, except, well. He's mostly stopped being shocked when it comes to this Marshall boy.

He's almost through the doorway when Gabriel stops him with a hand on his chest.

"Quite late, isn't it?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "Or very early, I should say."

Ian knocks his hand aside. "Why, Gabriel, I didn't know you cared."

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Suit yourself," he says, stepping aside.

Ian tips his head, smiling a little as he leaves. Even if he didn't know where Marshall lived now, he'd be able to follow the scent of him, streets mostly empty and path clear. The sky is a bit lighter than Ian would prefer, a dusty dark blue that makes Ian instinctually want to make it someplace dark and comfortable. He moves forward more quickly, though, and before he knows it he's back at Marshall's home. He has to scale the wall when he finds that the front gate is locked. Ian can't help the wide grin he has at that, thinking that it might be because of him.

He stands outside in the dark, shifting from foot to foot. He hasn't been back here since the night he drank from Marshall. He still gets shivers, just from thinking about it. After walking around the whole house, he comes to the conclusion that the room on the left side of it has to be Marshall's—it's where his smell is strongest, though it's apparent all around.

The window is cracked, and it's easy, so easy, for him to quietly slip inside, land on silent feet. He'd be upset, thinking of all the other things that could slip inside just as easily, if that wouldn't make him a terrible hypocrite.

And there Marshall is. Half undressed, laid out on a large four poster bed, as if he passed out while he was still trying to slip his shirt over his head. Ian smiles at the image. He isn't above just standing there for a moment, head tipped back as he lets Marshall's scent surround him stronger than ever, as this is where Marshall actually _lives_. God, but it's almost too much. He feels empty inside, as if he hadn't fed from a rather portly gentleman earlier that evening, as if he hasn't fed in a week.

He crouches by the side of the bed. He's almost startled when a lump of grey starts from the bed. A small tabby cat streaks from the room, through the cracked bedroom door. The thing must've been snug under Marshall's arm, and he hadn't noticed.

Carefully, he takes the coat off of one of Marshall's arms. He slips the mostly unbuttoned shirt from him, his other under garments, until Marshall is bare-chested. The boy really had drank too much, as he doesn't so much as twitch as his shirts are removed. Ian trails his fingertips lightly over his chest, over one nipple. He bends forward, nose to the thin skin over the hollow of Marshall throat, and breathes in. And he hardens, just from that. He brushes his lips across Marshall's neck, his pulse.

Marshall makes a noise in his sleep, and Ian jerks back. He eyes Marshall warily, but he quiets again, eyes moving back and forth under his eyelids.

He should be going anyway, he knows this, especially when he hears noises from downstairs; another servant, getting ready for the day, perhaps. Still, it's a struggle for him to back away from Marshall, towards the open window. A struggle for him to only brush the hair off Marshall's forehead before he jumps off the window sill.

He has to hurry back to the tavern, yellow and orange creeping across the sky until his skin itches, stings in some places. He makes it in time, but just barely, thoughts messy and loud in his head.

 

\--

 

And so it goes. Ian following Marshall during the nights, Gabriel shooting the both of them apprehensive looks, Marshall looking increasingly uncomfortable when he's out until he's almost never without Cash at his side.

Sometimes, not often though, he'll follow Marshall and Cash back to the property. He'll stand just outside the gate, or just inside, but he doesn't go back inside Marshall's room like the one night he’d crawled through. Mostly because Marshall has been having more and more sleepless nights. Ian will watch from a distance, shrouded in shadows, as Marshall paces the perimeter of his room over and over, sometimes standing at the window to peer out in the dark. Ian will feel a flutter of nervousness when that happens, though he knows it would be impossible for Marshall to see him where he hides.

Ian is of the mindset that he's been stealthy for the most part, only being otherwise when he's feeling reckless, like the time he caught Marshall's eye across the tavern and didn't look away, held his gaze long enough that Cash caught on. Then Marshall had snapped his eyes away, face flushing. He'd left very early that night, Cash following quickly, looking like he might've been biting back a question or several.

But, yes, Ian could've sworn that he'd been doing well as far as stealth goes, so he's more than a little surprised when Marshall corners him in a shop one early evening. So early, that Ian has blink away too-sensitive eyes from the orange of the sky, regretting his flash decision to follow Marshall to this very shop.

Marshall pokes one finger into Ian's chest. "I don't know what you're doing, or what you think you're doing," he says, voice firm, "but I am asking you to stop."

None of the other few customers seem to be paying them any mind, as they are in a mostly secluded corner. But there is Cash, standing a couple feet behind Marshall, stony expression and fists forming at his sides.

Ian stares over Marshall's shoulder long enough that Cash's brow draws together, long enough that Marshall waves an impatient hand behind them. "Leave us, Cash," he says, never looking away from Ian.

Cash hesitates, of course he does, but Marshall's head turns to the side the tiniest bit, mouth tight, and then he is walking away, though he grumbles about it under his breath. Marshall faces him fully again.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Marshall," Ian finally says. He smiles at him, rather politely.

"Don't, _Mister_ Crawford," Marshall says. The emphasis on the honorific makes Ian's mouth twitch in amusement, though he's sure Marshall would find it highly inappropriate. "Stop following me."

Ian forces himself to frown. "Why on earth would I follow you around?"

Marshall flushes, looking painfully uncomfortable, and not a little embarrassed. "How would I know," he mutters. "Your reasons are your own, however strange or sick."

"They are," Ian agrees, mouth twitching once more.

"I see you everywhere." Marshall's voice is low, secretive, as if he's admitting something shameful. "And when I don't see you, I _feel_ you, and I am tired of looking over my shoulder suspiciously every time I leave my home."

Ian studies Marshall, eyes roaming over the red in his cheeks, the slight tremor in his hands. If that weren't enough of a tell, Ian can smell the fear on him, heady and sharp.

He steps forward deliberately, until the tips of his shoes touch Marshall's. Marshall doesn't back away and Ian can't say that he's not surprised. He holds his ground, even when Ian slowly raises a hand to brush a lock of hair off of his forehead.

"Do I make you uncomfortable, Marshall?" Ian asks quietly, fingers lingering on Marshall's cheek before dropping again.

There's a flinching sort of look around Marshall's eyes. "Yes," he answers, just as quietly. His voice isn't quite as steady as before.

Ian brushes the knuckles of one hand across the back of Marshall's and takes a step back. He straightens, says, "I'll keep my distance then. But that doesn't mean you won't run into me every now and again."

"I'll take it," Marshall says, wry, nervous, twist to his mouth.

Then he's leaving the shop, Cash behind him. Ian makes sure to aim a smarmy smile at him when he glances over his shoulder, adding a jaunty wave of his fingers.

 

\--

 

Marshall stops coming to Gabriel’s tavern after the stern talking to he’d given Ian a few days prior. Ian doesn’t even see Marshall and he finds himself fidgeting and restless, unable to stop himself from draining the people he feeds from. Gabriel stops him one night, before he leaves, and informs him that there’s talk, bodies being found in alleys and further north near the upscale plantation homes. Ian shrugs him off, tells him to keep his nose in his own business but when he goes out that night, he doesn’t feed at all. He’s wary of being implicated or caught. And he doesn’t want to get Gabriel into any trouble either.

He goes without for a few days before the hunger is so strong and vivid in his stomach and behind his eyes that he can hardly think. He feeds from three different people but leaves them unconscious where he takes them.

It’s not enough still. He wants to see Marshall, smell him, touch him; his skin is _crawling_ with it. He’s addicted to the feeling of seeing him out, looking over his shoulder, watching him sleep. It’s been nearly a week and he hasn’t so much as glimpsed him pacing the floors of his home in as much time.

Ian ducks into an alley and vomits. It’s nothing but blood, which he thinks will cause a stir, if someone should see it, as much as any amount of bodies he could leave behind. It’s also something he hasn’t done since William first turned him and he’d seemed to come back to himself in the midst of eating a young lady.

William had pulled him off, stifled her screams by snapping her neck and practically carried him home. He’d thought he was with fever, panting and sweaty while William laid him down and wiped his forehead with a cold, damp cloth, singing under his breath to him. He’d shook until the sun came up and he passed out. Ian rests his forehead against the wall of the building he’s beside and thinks of William now, how he’d like nothing more than to be back home with him. It’s an ache in his chest, an empty feeling so forceful he nearly screams. 

It’s then that he scents Marshall.

His head jolts up and he sniffs hard. It’s weak, diluted by the smell that he’s come to know as Cash. Ian licks his lips and steps out onto the street, sniffing around until he sees Cash off to his left. He’s alone and that itself is enough to make Ian bare his teeth. Marshall’s smell clings to Cash like a second skin and Ian feels a fury so powerful for just an instant that he wants to spring forward and tear Cash’s throat out with his teeth.

Ian shakes himself forcefully out of his thoughts. Killing Cash would hurt Marshall. Somehow, he’s not sure why however, Ian is certain that that’s not what he wants at all.

Cash finishes his conversation with a man in a pinstriped waistcoat and a crisp white shirt beneath it and they go their separate ways. Ian follows Cash, brushing past the other man, feeling his eyes on his back when he turns to look at Ian. It’s uncomfortable and odd in a way that Ian almost looks back.

Instead he puts more distance between himself and Cash and follows him right up to the edge of Marshall’s property. He waits until Cash locks the gate—he can hear the quiet click in the silence around them—before he bolts forward through the grass and practically hops right up onto the stone wall. He crouches there for a moment, sniffing out the scent he’s looking for, before he hops down, sticking low in the shadows, as most of the downstairs is lit up.

Ian doesn’t see Marshall, even though he checks every window, on his way towards the back. It’s there that he waits. Lounging on the back porch, seemingly watching fireflies as they flicker in and out around the yard, is the small, grey cat that had been curled up against Marshall’s side. He practically crawls across the grass, soundless, but the cat still looks up at him and meows. For a moment Ian stills with the irrational fear that he’s been caught.

When nothing changes, Marshall doesn’t appear to let the cat in, Cash doesn’t storm out promising violence if Ian doesn’t remove himself immediately, he darts forward, using the full, unnatural speed his body allows that he rarely employs, and grabs the cat.

He has her back over the stone fence before she can even yowl.

 

\--

 

It’s two nights later that Cash comes into the tavern before Ian has even left. He speaks with a woman and a man near the door. They both shake their heads and he steps around tables towards the bar where he leans over to say something to Gabriel. It’s too loud for Ian to hear, even with the advancements his ears allow him, and it’s just too much of a temptation for him not to pick up his half-empty glass and take it over with him to ask Gabriel for a refill.

“You’ve seen her,” Cash is saying and Gabriel nods, “he’s had her his entire life. He’s heartbroken.”

“I understand, but I haven’t seen his cat, Cash.” Gabriel takes Ian’s glass from him and eyes him oddly before topping it off.

Cash seems to realize then who is beside him and he takes a step to the side. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t place yourself so close to me.” His voice is a growl and the arched eyebrow Gabriel gives him as he hands his glass back makes Ian smile; he can’t help himself.

“A cat, you say?” Ian finally asks when the silence between the three of them borders on uncomfortable and he can smell it when Cash begins to sweat.

Gabriel eyes him oddly still but Cash turns to focus on him, meeting his eyes in a way that hasn’t ever happened. “Yes.”

“What kind of cat?”

Cash’s eyes narrow. “Master Marshall’s grey tabby. He’s had her since he was a boy. She’s gone missing.”

Ian tilts his head to the side. “I believe I’ve seen such a cat.”

He can smell both Gabriel and Cash’s suspicion; it makes him want to smile but he bites it back.

“Really,” Cash says, voice deadpan, not even slightly questioning.

“Really,” Ian repeats. “One has shown up in the back.” He gestures over his shoulder towards the room where he stays and Cash actually looks at Gabriel.

“Curious,” he says, “that he would know what’s in your back yard, Saporta.”

Gabriel’s panic is quick and palpable, but he doesn’t show it where Cash could see. Ian stares at him but Gabriel doesn’t return the look.

“You’re welcome to check,” he says, gesturing behind him.

Cash nods a little, pushing past Ian. “I’ll do that.”

The cat is not out back when Ian follows Cash through the door. Cash calls for her and Ian tries not to laugh at her name. Cash glares at him over his shoulder.

“You’re really an odd character,” he says, not a hint of politeness behind his tone. Ian arches his eyebrow and folds his arms against his chest. When Ian doesn’t respond verbally he turns back and calls out for Sophia again. Ian does laugh this time, light and quiet, to himself, but Cash turns again. “You’d do well not to laugh at her in Master Marshall’s presence.”

“For what reason should I censor myself?”

Cash turns fully, closing the distance between them and Ian can smell his anger. He’s close enough, when he stops, that he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a low growl for Ian to hear. “She’s named for Alex’s sister. She died of scarlet fever when she was young.”

“Seems he has no luck where his family is concerned.”

Cash hits him then and Ian stumbles, taken completely off guard. “You keep your damn foul thoughts to yourself.” Ian rights himself, holding his cheek and gaping a little; it won’t swell or bruise, but he’s still shocked that this _human_ has touched him.

Ian lunges forward, grabbing Cash by the collar of his shirt and snarls in his face, fighting fiercely to keep his fangs in. “You ever touch me again and I’ll crush your heart while it beats in my hand.”

Cash pales, gripping Ian’s wrists, attempting to push him off. “Stay away from Marshall.” His bravery, though fear leaks from his pores like sweat, is nearly astonishing. “You come near him again and I’ll have you—”

“What deviltry is this?” Gabriel’s voice is loud and angry from the doorway. “Ian, unhand him at once.”

Ian lets go. Cash shoves away from him, towards Gabriel, only stopping when he’s a good distance away. “Give the cat to Gabriel if you find her. You’re not welcome at Marshall’s home.” He squeezes into the tavern past Gabriel before either of them can respond and Ian is left standing in the yard, Gabriel’s accusing eyes on him.

“Whatever you’re doing, you stop it,” Gabriel tells him seriously. “You’re turning into trouble and if you begin warding off my customers I’ll throw you out.”

Ian straightens his jacket, standing to his full, short stature and heading in. Gabriel stops him and Ian looks up. “I’ll behave.”

“See that you do,” Gabriel tells him, despite the mocking tone in Ian’s voice.

Ian pushes past him, into the back room, pulling the door shut behind him. He hasn’t fed at all but he’s not going out tonight. He tosses his jacket into the corner, not bothering to hang it on any number of the hooks lining the wall. Instead he kneels down onto his bed on the floor, reaching out to stroke the cat curled upon his pillow.

She purrs contentedly when he leans down, lifting her head to touch her nose to his, sniffing his face before turning her head and scenting him. Ian smiles and scratches under her chin.

“You’re so pretty, Sophia.”

 

\--

 

It isn't until two days later that Ian slips out of the tavern, Sophia hidden in his jacket. His situation with Gabriel is already strained enough, he doesn't know what Gabriel would do if he found that Ian had hid the cat the entire time, and he's not sure he wants to know.

The walk up to Marshall's property is a slow, meandering one. He cradles Sophia in the crook of his arm, petting her over and over until she purrs. His mind wanders during the walk, touching on questions he wishes he could answer. Maybe they will be answered tonight. He can only hope.

He jumps the wall when he finds that the gate is locked. He's careful not to jostle Sophia too much, but she still yowls a little when he lands on the either side. He shushes her, hand still stroking over her fur.

He has to wait a full minute before someone answers the door, though he can voices just on the other side. It's Cash who opens it.

"What," he starts. He looks taken aback. "I could've sworn I locked the gate," Cash mutters under his breath, and Ian doubts he was supposed to be able to hear it.

"Evening," Ian says, tipping his head.

Cash's mouth goes tight with disapproval. "I believe I told you before that you were to hand Sophia to Gabriel if she was found."

"But that wouldn't be fair at all," Ian points out. "Gabriel isn't the one who found her."

Cash's mouth opens, no doubt to say some other rude thing, when Marshall appears behind him. "Who's here?"

His eyes go almost comically wide when he sees Ian on the doorstep and the cat in his arms. "Sophia!" he exclaims. He frowns; then, "You!"

Ian matches the frown. "Is that any way to greet the person that found your beloved missing pet? Goodness," he says softly, and clicks his tongue.

That must appeal to the proper young man in Marshall, or something similar, because there's a splash of red on his cheeks as he glances away.

"Let him in, Cash," Marshall says, tone suggesting he'd rather do any other number of unpleasant activities.

Cash steps aside, allowing Ian inside, though he glowers at him the whole time. Ian strokes over Sophia's back a couple more times, scratching under her chin, before he lets her go to the ground. She twines about his ankles a few times before crossing over and doing the same to Marshall. Marshall picks her up right away, fondly petting her, though his eyes flick to Ian, expression unreadable.

"Do you want your reward?" Cash asks shortly. "I assume that's why you brought her back, for the reward."

"I've got it, Cash," Marshall says. He aims a significant look at him and, if it's possible, Cash just frowns harder. But he leaves the hall, leaves just Marshall and Ian and the cat to themselves.

"Thank you," he says to Ian, once Cash has rounded the corner.

"You're quite welcome," Ian says. He smiles at Marshall. "A lovely cat you have. Very friendly."

Marshall glances back down at Sophia in his arms before letting her down. She scurries away, happy to back in her own home. "She's not, actually. She usually shies away from new people. She still shies away from Cash sometimes."

"Interesting," Ian says, eyebrows crawling up his forehead.

"It is," Marshall agrees. He doesn't look particularly happy to admit it. "If you'll give me a moment, I'll just go and retrieve your reward for bringing her back."

"That won't be necessary," Ian says.

"You don't want a reward?" Marshall looks surprised.

"I do, but that's not the form of reward I want."

Any pleasant face Marshall might've had on drops immediately. He starts, "I don't know what you think you can—"

Ian raises his hands in front of him, interrupting Marshall. He laughs a little, says, "No, not at all, I'd just like to stay for dinner."

Marshall looks almost as taken aback as Cash had upon answering the door. He eyes Ian as if he'd just suggested Marshall kill his beloved cat, or something equally disturbing.

"You're turning down money," Marshall says slowly. "To stay for dinner instead?"

"Yes." Ian nods.

Marshall is quiet for a moment, seemingly coming to some kind of decision right then and there. Ian waits.

"You may stay," Marshall finally says. He nods to himself.

"Lovely," Ian smiles.

 

\--

 

They sit in the living room until dinner is ready and Marshall keeps giving him this look, a look that suggests he's just waiting for Ian to jump on his armchair and do something vulgar. Ian only smiles back at him. Cash is nowhere to be found, and for that, Ian is beyond grateful. But, still.

"Cash won't be joining us this evening?" Ian asks.

Marshall looks pained, and answers haltingly. "He'd rather eat alone this evening."

Ian hides his grin behind his hand. So he refused to have dinner with Ian in the same room. "That's too bad."

Marshall nods. "May I ask if there's a reason for your moving down here, Mister Crawford?"

"I guess you could say that I'm a bit of a nomad," Ian answers. "I don't like to be in any one place for too long."

Marshall squints his eyes, jaw moving as if he's unsure of whether he should ask the next question. "Any family?"

"No." Ian smoothes his hands over his pant legs, his knees. "Not by blood, anyway." Which is really almost ironic for him to say, given how he and William met, how William changed him.

Marshall nods again, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. Before can ask any other awkward questions, there is a servant in the doorway, calling Marshall and his guest to the dining room.

The food looks exquisitely prepared, artfully arranged on expensive porcelain plates. Marshall looks thrilled. Ian tries not to wince. He can eat food, though it's unnecessary, always heavy and unpleasant in his stomach. He ends up mostly pushing the food around with the silver cutlery, taking a bite every once in a while when Marshall glances at him.

"Is that a face?" Marshall asks, eyes moving between Ian's plate and Ian himself.

"Sorry?" Ian asks, before he actually takes a look at his own plate, and well. It does look like a face, if he squints his eyes and turns his head sideways a bit. "I guess so."

Marshall's mouth is quirked in amusement, and has just a moment to berate himself for the warm feeling he gets, knowing he caused that, before he speaks again. "Does this meal displease you, Mister Crawford?"

"What? No, of course not," Ian says quickly.

"You've hardly eaten any of it," Marshall says, nodding at Ian's plate. "Are you unwell?"

"It's a lovely meal," Ian mumbles through a mouthful of meat, the forkful he'd shoved into his mouth to prove that he is just fine, that the food is not displeasing him.

Marshall's brow draws together, lips parting. He looks like he might kick Ian out for his horrid table manners, like he is really very deeply offended.

Then he's laughing, a little bit disbelievingly, hand to his chest. Ian blinks at him, though he can't but smile at the way Marshall's eyes crinkle at the corner, at the way his hand goes to his chest.

"You're very different," Marshall says, once the laughter has died down. It still lingers about his eyes, twinkling.

Ian brings another forkful to his mouth. He makes sure to swallow it down as easily as he can before asking, "A good kind of different?"

Marshall becomes serious again. He looks back down at his plate. "I can't tell yet."

They retire to the drawing room, once Marshall's plate has been cleaned and Ian has only spread his food more evenly about his own plate. Marshall had eyed it, but apparently stopped himself from mentioning it again.

Marshall pours them each a drink and Ian makes sure that their fingers brush when Marshall hands off the glass.

"Thank you," he says, glass halfway to his mouth. "It was a great dinner."

Marshall smiles wryly, says, "You sure looked like you greatly enjoyed it."

Ian doesn't acknowledge the quip, eyes glancing about the room, sipping at his drink. "You have a nice home," Ian says.

"Thank you." Marshall's hand fidget slightly in his lap, around his glass. "Are you really staying in the back room at the tavern?" He looks embarrassed after the question slips out, like he regrets asking. "Cash said you might."

"Cash did," Ian says. He cocks an eyebrow at Marshall. "You two don't keep much from each other, do you?"

"He's the best friend I have," Marshall says. "One of the only."

Ian nods, but he can feel the unhappy curve to his own mouth because here he is, finally alone with Marshall, and they're talking about _Cash_ of all things. Ian doesn't want to talk about Cash and he would prefer to not have to deal with him at all either.

"I am," Ian says. "Staying in the back room."

"I imagine that can't be very comfortable," Marshall says, frowning.

"I don't imagine this is you offering a better place to stay, is it?" Ian asks, giving a half-smile and a questioning tilt to his head.

Marshall blushes again. "Oh no, well, I don't think that would be. Proper," he stammers out.

"Of course," Ian says, laughing. He tips his glass in Marshall's direction.

Marshall waits until Ian has mostly finished his drink to say, "It's getting quite late. I should probably retire to my bedroom."

"Really," Ian says. "No gallivanting all over the town this night?"

Marshall's smile then doesn't quite reach his eyes. "No, not tonight."

He walks Ian to the door, hands off his coat. Ian refrains from making a smart remark about getting kicked out. "Thank you for having me," he says.

"Thank you for bringing Sophia back," Marshall responds.

Ian tugs on the bottom of his coat. "Allow me to return tomorrow evening."

"I believe you've gotten your reward already, Mister Crawford," Marshall says, the beginnings of a frown etched in his brow.

"I have. And I'm not asking for it as a reward, but to be let in as a guest," he says. "As a friend."

"I suppose that would be all right," Marshall says after a tense moment. Ian's shoulders sag the tiniest bit, relieved.

"Then I will see you tomorrow." Ian smiles at him.

"Tomorrow," Marshall says, then Ian is opening the door, making his way back towards the tavern.

He grins to himself the whole walk there.

 

\--

 

Ian is out of the back room at dusk, bolting from the tavern before Gabriel can offer a single word to him. He quickly finds and lures a woman down a vacant side street with him and pins her to the wall. He takes her pocketbook while she’s still slumped on the ground and buys an intricately embroidered handkerchief for Marshall and Gabriel a hat—pays extra to have it wrapped and put in a well-made box, before taking it back to the tavern. He doesn’t wait for him to open it, just leaves it on the bar and heads for the door again.

The walk to Marshall’s is made slower by a lazy drizzle of rain, causing the road to mist over and Ian has a difficult time seeing even with his enhanced eyesight.

To his great surprise, and pleasure, he finds the front gate open. He slips inside and hurries up to the door, knocking only after he shakes his hair out. It’s damp and thick curls stick to his forehead. He hates his hair at times like this.

Cash answers the door, face tight and expressionless as he lets Ian in. Ian practically glows, he’s certain, when he steps inside and hands his jacket to Cash.

“Cash?” Marshall’s voice calls from somewhere up above. Ian eyes the stairs and then Cash as he mounts them.

“You wait here,” he warns, turning back and stepping over Sophia as he makes his way up.

Ian crouches down and snaps his fingers. She trots over, tail waving behind her, meowing quietly. He strokes a finger over her head. “Beautiful,” he mumbles, rubbing her head, behind her ears, down her back before scooping her up as he stands. “You know it too, don’t you?”

Sophia purrs loudly, rubbing the side of her head against his jaw, kneading her paws against his shoulder.

Ian doesn’t even notice that Marshall is standing at the foot of the stairs, somehow missing his sweet, overpowering scent until he speaks. “I would never have taken you for an animal lover.”

Ian nearly starts, opens his eyes and grins. “I’m not. I know how to appreciate beauty when I see it, however.” He levels Marshall with a heavy stare that leaves him flushing and looking away.

“Are you hungry?” Marshall asks as Ian leans down to let Sophia jump from his arms. She purrs again as she rubs herself against Marshall’s legs and he leans down to pet her before she turns and takes the stairs two at a time.

“No,” Ian says belatedly, breathing deeply.

Marshall eyes him oddly before gesturing around, looking uncomfortable. “What holds your interests, Mister Crawford?”

Ian catches himself eyeing Marshall’s wrist, the stretch of tan skin, before he meets his gaze again. “I should like to see the rest of your property. You own horses do you not?”

They spend a good deal of time in the barn, Cash a little ways off, watching them. Ian is disappointed but he can hardly tell Marshall to make Cash leave, so he ignores him for the most part, stroking the horses they pass and making conversation with Marshall about breeding. William had given him a horse once when they’d lived in the French countryside.

Ian closes his eyes a moment, holding gently to one of the horse’s faces; he looks just like Ian’s had. Ian presses his forehead gently against the horse’s and is hit with a wave of sadness so strong it almost takes his breath from him. This longing to be near William will not ease its grip.

“Are you well, Mister Crawford?” Marshall asks. He senses a hand near him, hovering as though he’s too afraid to touch.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Ian says, leaning back and stroking a hand against coarse hair. He’s hungry suddenly.

“It’s getting late,” Cash calls from the entrance. “Master Marshall, you should be heading in.”

Marshall turns from Ian and nods at Cash. “All right, Cash, we’ll close up here.”

Cash doesn’t move at all as they make their way towards the door. “Do you always do as he says?” Ian finds himself asking once Cash steps outside, waiting to close the door and take Marshall’s lantern from him.

Marshall’s voice is tight when he asks Cash to head up to the house, make certain that Sophia is inside and prepare his bed. Cash is hesitant to go but he does, trudging slowly across the wet lawn.

Marshall follows slowly, fireflies blinking sluggishly, dotted all across the yard. Ian stays at his side; his jaw aches and he rotates it slightly. “Cash takes good care of me and I’ll thank you not to insult him.”

“I wasn’t insulting.”

“You were implying something and it’s nothing I’m keen on.”

Ian makes a non-committal sound. “Have you ever caught fireflies, Master Marshall?”

The abrupt change in topic seems to startle Marshall. “Excuse me?” he asks, turning slightly.

Ian doesn’t respond, he stands stock still, waiting until one lands close by in the grass before he practically tiptoes over to it and cups his hands down around it. Light glows between his fingers as he wanders back over to Marshall, holding it out before him.

“Release it,” Marshall tells him.

“It’s not hurting it.”

“Let it go,” Marshall takes hold of both of his wrists and pries them apart, Ian allows the movement, twisting his hands around to take hold of both of Marshall’s forearms in turn. Marshall is silent, hands still on Ian’s wrists, staring at him; Ian stares back. “’tis a child’s game.”

Ian braves a step closer but not another when Marshall takes one away from him. He keeps his voice low and calm, fingertips stroking over the skin of Marshall’s exposed forearms as he speaks. “You’re not much older than a child, Marshall.”

He can feel Marshall shudder a little before he pulls his arms free and crosses them over his chest. “I haven’t been a child for a long time, Mister Crawford.”

“How long before you address me as Ian?” he asks, rubbing his fingers over his own wrist where Marshall’s fingers had brushed against his skin.

“As long as you continue to insult me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ian assures him.

Marshall glances back to the house when Cash opens the porch door, holding Sophia and staring out at them.

“Cash is my friend, he’s part of who I am and my habits, be they adult or child, are not yours to examine critically.”

Ian’s fangs are making his face hurt. He nods a little after a moment. “All too true.” He sighs. “If I have been wicked in that, I apologize.”

Marshall’s face lightens a little. “Thank you.” Then, “I still find you a slight bit disturbing, Mister Crawford.” Ian shakes his head. “Ian,” Marshall corrects.

Ian smiles. “Insults don’t feel quite so harsh when they come from you.”

Even in the darkness he can see Marshall’s blush.

Cash calls then, voice impatient and Marshall turns, leading him back through the house to the front door. Cash finds him his jacket and opens the door, stepping out before him.

Ian spares him a glance before turning back to Marshall. He takes his hand and raises it to his lips. Marshall doesn’t pull back as though he’s been burned until Ian’s lingered there a moment. He hisses a little, holding his arm tightly against his chest and staring down at Ian with wide eyes and red cheeks.

“Mister Crawford, that—”

“Was entirely inappropriate,” Cash interrupts. He fists a hand in Ian’s jacket and pulls him away from Marshall. “You will be leaving now.”

Ian looks back at Marshall with as enticing a look as he can muster. “Tomorrow evening, be my guest at the tavern.”

“I don’t know,” Marshall says.

“Please.” Ian is above begging, not imploring looks and persuasive words. “It would be entirely my pleasure.”

Cash pushes him towards the walk.

“We shall see,” Marshall finally mutters, turning back to the house and stepping inside.

Ian allows Cash to shove him through the gate before locking it behind him. He resists turning and purring something mocking at Cash, and instead starts the trek home.

 

\--

 

Ian blinks his eyes open, nearly starting when he notices Gabriel at the foot of his bed. Gabriel stares down at him, expression mostly unreadable.

"Marshall is here to see you," he says, and his tone implies that they will definitely be talking about this later, if not soon.

Ian is almost surprised to hear it, almost, but, mostly, he's just happy, downright giddy. Because Marshall came to see him. He actually came. "Thank you," Ian says to Gabriel voice practically vibrating with excitement.

Gabriel rolls his eyes, turning to leave. Ian has already stood from the floor, and Gabriel is almost out of the door when he turns back suddenly. Ian raises his eyebrows, questioningly, when Gabriel doesn't say anything right away. He eyes Ian for a moment. "And thank you," Gabriel says. "For the hat."

Ian grins at him. "Least I could do."

Gabriel shakes his head. He mutters, under his breath, as he leaves, "I don't even want to know where you got the money from."

Ian is mostly straightened up, as presentable as possible, before he realizes a problem; that he has to eat. He couldn't possibly be in the presence of Marshall, surrounded by his scent, and not do something regrettable. So he manages to slip out of the back of the tavern, searching quickly. He doesn't want to make Marshall wait any longer than necessary, so he doesn't drain anyone, just feeds quickly off of a young man that he knocks unconscious first.

Marshall is sitting at the table he sat at when Ian first met him. He wonders if that's deliberate or not. He nearly hisses when he notices Cash across from him.

"Evening," Ian says, smiling at Marshall. He pulls up a chair, situating himself close enough to Marshall that their knees touch.

"Good evening to you, too," Cash mutters. He's frowning into a cup, looking almost sullen. Ian imagines them fighting over it in Marshall's home, Cash asking him to stay, Marshall insisting on going. It makes Ian smile.

Marshall shoots an unhappy look at Cash, before turning to Ian. "How are you this evening, Mister—" Ian doesn't even have to give him a look before he corrects himself, "—Ian."

"Well," Ian says, beaming. "And yourself?"

"I am also well, thank you." Marshall nods at him.

The night goes smoothly, better than Ian could've expected. Well, better than Ian could've expected with Cash just there, seemingly pretending that neither of them exist, and only coming back into the conversation once or twice to throw a veiled jab at Ian's character. Ian mostly acts as if he doesn't notice, as if the insults are flying right over his head. It's either that or throttle Cash.

"I did not know you were able to play piano," Ian says, leaning forward. He covers Marshall's hand on the table, turning it over to press one thumb into his palm. Marshall slowly flushes, eyes glancing about the room as if he is afraid of anyone noticing them here, like this. No one is paying them any mind, Ian knows. He rubs his thumb over the heel of hand, the light veins on his wrist. "Though I should've," he continues, catching Marshall's eye. "You've a musician's pair of hands."

Marshall pulls his hand away, but Ian is already feeling like he's won something by then. "It's just a hobby, nothing more."

"Still," Ian smiles. "I'd like to see you play sometime."

"Maybe one day," Marshall says. He even smiles back at Ian.

"It's late," Cash says. He looks significantly at Marshall.

"It is," Marshall agrees. "We should go."

"Allow me to walk you home," Ian says. He's already standing up, slipping his coat back on as Marshall and Cash do the same.

"That would be unnecessary," Cash says, at the same time Marshall says, "If you insist."

"Oh, I do," Ian says. He smiles at Cash, following them out.

Cash lags behind as Marshall and Ian walk close enough that their hands brush. Marshall will duck his head, look away, but, Ian notes, he doesn't step away.

Ian walks Marshall all the way up to the front door, until they are standing just outside of it. "I have something for you," Ian says, lowering his voice until it's almost too quiet.

Marshall looks intrigued, maybe. He says, "Goodnight, Cash."

Cash doesn't say anything as he shoulders his way between them, through the door, but he does make sure to throw one more nasty look over his shoulder at Ian.

Marshall sighs. "I'd like to apologize on Cash's behalf. He's just. Very protective of me."

"I can understand that," Ian says, and Marshall glances away.

"You said you had something?"

"Yes," Ian says. He reaches into his inside coat, pulling out the embroidered handkerchief. Marshall doesn't take it right away, eyeing it as if he expects it to bite him. Ian waves it a little, and Marshall finally takes it. He stares down at it, running his thumb over the intricate threading.

He doesn't look up when he says, "Thank you." But Ian thinks he does mean it.

"You're quite welcome." Marshall pockets the handkerchief, looking up at Ian through his hair. He looks confused. Like he doesn't know what to make of Ian. It's better than a host of other, worse, looks he could be aiming at Ian just then.

"I suppose it would be time for me to bid you goodnight," Marshall says. Ian nods. Marshall doesn't make a move to go inside. He doesn't say anything else either. Just looks at Ian.

So Ian steps forward. He steps close, and closer still, and is reminded of that day in the shop, when Marshall had warned him away. Marshall takes in a sharp breath, and Ian wonders if he's reminded of it too. And just like that other day, Marshall doesn't back down. He doesn't step away, even as Ian wraps his fingers around Marshall's hand, squeezing. Even though Ian can smell the fear spiking, and maybe something more like excitement.

"Goodnight," Ian whispers, but it's mostly lost, because he presses his lips to Marshall's, tilting his chin up to do so.

Marshall gasps against his mouth, tensing. He steps away, flushed, brow furrowed. Ian stares at him, waiting for a reprimand, a shout, a punch, but it never comes. Marshall doesn't even shake Ian's hand from his.

"I'm not a woman," Marshall says, and it's really the last thing Ian would've expected. Marshall's hand is a little sweaty in his, and Ian squeezes it once more.

"I didn't think you were," he says. Marshall licks his lower lip, and Ian's eyes drop to it. He feels an empty ache in his belly, and he knows that he'll have to feed again before the night is out.

"Really? Because I thought you might've been somehow confused, what with you buying me trinkets and kissing me on my doorstep." Marshall is breathing a little too rapidly for the setting. But he _still_ hasn't pulled away.

So Ian steps forward, again, and doesn't pause before he presses their mouths together. He pushes up onto his toes, other hand cupping the side of Marshall's face.

And Marshall, he doesn't exactly kiss back, but. He hesitates, hand hovering in the air before going to the back of Ian's neck, and he bends down a bit, enough to let Ian slide his mouth over Marshall's more easily. Ian presses even closer, the front of their clothes brushing. Marshall's scent is surrounding, too sweet, and he has to expend a little bit of energy on making sure his fangs don't descend.

It continues like this, at least until Ian touches his tongue to the dip of Marshall's bottom lip, tilting his head to the side. Then Marshall is gasping again, taking step back. And this time, he does shake Ian's hand off of his.

"What?" Ian asks, and his voice is low, almost scratchy.

"You should leave now," Marshall says, voice barely above a whisper. Marshall's eyes are wide, lips still parted, and he's surprised when Marshall says, low again, "go."

Ian backs away, walking backwards down the path to the gate. "Okay," he says, only loud enough that Marshall can hear. He waves at him where he still stands on the doorstep, looking almost shell-shocked. "But I will see you tomorrow."

Ian turns back around, walking properly towards the tavern. Marshall doesn't protest.

 

\--

 

Ian doesn’t wake up to Gabriel in his face again, but it’s a near thing. He exits the back room, pulling his jacket on and runs directly into him.

Gabriel grabs his chest, fear spiking hard enough that Ian stumbles backwards a little. It’s worrisome, how in tune he’s becoming with these select humans. Nothing like this has ever happened before, but he’s not ready to really think about it yet, so he steadies himself on the wall and looks up.

“Good evening to you too, Gabriel.”

“Ian, Mister Crawford, you’ll be the death of me,” Gabriel pants before narrowing his gaze at Ian’s smirking face, cheeks flushing. “That was poor wording on my part.”

Ian nods an affirmative and takes a step, intending to squeeze past Gabriel into the bar, but a strong hand on his elbow stops him. Ian turns back. “Yes?”

“A moment?” Gabriel asks. Ian nods a little and Gabriel’s hand falls away. “You can’t not know what I’m going to ask.”

Ian sighs, he’s so tired of this conversation. “Gabriel, I am not going to harm him. I can’t make that any clearer.”

Gabriel eyes him up and down, shoulders sagging a little before he rubs a hand over his face; he looks tired. “I can only be direct so I will.” Ian’s attention is perked. “Your interest in him is far from platonic—”

Ian cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “You may conserve your voice because I will answer nothing concerning this.”

“Ian—”

“I’m hungry,” he continues, “and I believe I have an engagement with Master Marshall that cannot be missed. So unless you intend to let me partake of your life,” he reaches up to stroke a finger down the side of Gabriel’s throat, “then you would do well to end this conversation.”

Gabriel knocks his hand away, rubbing at his neck and shaking his head. “I don’t know whether to fear you or call you my friend.”

Ian shakes his head again, small grin in place. “Why not both?”

Gabriel pushes past him without another word.

 

\--

 

He collects Marshall at his front door, Cash refusing to let him in before Marshall is ready. He gives Cash a pleading look and Ian covers his smile when he turns away, heading down the steps to the path.

Cash and Marshall growl back and forth at one another, Ian listens carefully to Marshall asking Cash to behave and Cash telling him that Marshall needs to wake up because something isn’t right.

They argue a moment longer before Ian clears his throat, hands clasped behind his back, looking on at them expectantly. Marshall grabs the sides of his jacket, tugging the material closer to his thin form and taking quick strides to place him beside Ian. Cash follows at a distance, disgust and anger radiating from him; yet he never heads back towards the house. Ian can’t say he’s not disappointed.

They take a shortcut through the woods, heading for the shore at the edge of town. Marshall bumps against him several times in the dark and Ian steadies him more than once, his hand lingering against Marshall’s arm. The trees suddenly thin and Ian hops down the small, abrupt sand drop off and turns, holding his hands out to take hold of Marshall’s sides and help him down.

Cash ruins whatever sort of moment that might have developed when he leaps down with a curse and pulls Marshall away. Instead of fighting, however, this time Marshall keeps his head bent, listening as Cash speaks quietly into his ear. Ian can’t hear it over the sound of the waves breaking against the shore so he stops trying, heading forward to the line of damp sand and stops.

Eventually Marshall steps up beside him, lips rolled inward, looking out at the reflection of the moon on the water. He seems troubled, Ian can taste it practically. He waits until Marshall looks over at him and holds out his arm, bent at the elbow. “Shall we?”

Marshall smiles a little, slipping his arm through Ian’s and allowing him to change their direction, heading off down the beach.

“Have you ever lived near the water before?” Marshall asks lightly.

Ian nods. “Once,” he says but doesn’t elaborate. William and he had shared a fantastic home on the shore in Italy and it makes his throat clench to even think of it. “You’ve been here your entire life, then, Master Marshall?”

Marshall cocks his head, looking sideways at Ian a moment before back at the endless stretch of beach beyond. “Just Marshall is fine, if you please.”

Ian hums low in his throat. “I do please,” he says, voice thicker than he means and when Marshall looks at him he feels the ache of his fangs so forcefully that he has to pull away.

“Are you well, Ian?” Marshall asks, stopping and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Ian keeps a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes, willing his fangs back up, away before Marshall notices. He bends over at the waist and Marshall hunches over with him. “Ian?”

Cash makes a loud, obnoxious sound from off to the side and Marshall lets him go a moment before Ian finally stands upright again. His jaw _throbs_ and he’s suddenly so hungry that he feels ill. He hadn’t eaten before he’d come out tonight, a foolish decision that he knows he’s going to pay for the entire evening.

“I’m fine, thank you, Marshall,” he says, patting the hand on his arm, squeezing it. Marshall doesn’t move to pull away and Ian doesn’t either.

“We can head back,” Marshall offers, thumb smoothing over the material of Ian’s jacket.

“Master Marshall,” Cash calls, annoyed sounding.

But Marshall seems completely uninterested in whatever he has to say because he tears his eyes from Ian’s and snaps at Cash. “Will you just give us a moment, Cash?”

Ian feels Cash’s disappointment, resentment, across the distance and listens to him trudge away through the sand, footsteps slow. He wanders back but not all that far; out of earshot at least.

Finally Ian shakes his head and says, “I’m well enough, I promise.”

Marshall nods, hand falling a little. He hisses, pulling back abruptly, looking down at his finger. “Damn,” he curses quietly.

Ian reaches for him, grasping his wrist and leaning in closer. “What is it?”

“I caught my finger on something.” Ian looks down at his jacket but sees nothing on which Marshall could have injured himself. Then he smells blood.

It’s not a lot, just a small cut on the tip of Marshall’s finger, but it smells _sweet_. The overwhelming scent that had first attracted Ian to him in the first place explodes in the air between them and Ian’s fangs are suddenly digging into his lower lip. He instantly drops his head again, feeling woozy and completely off center as he strokes at the smooth skin of Marshall’s hand.

He gets himself under control, licking his lips a few times before his teeth appear normal and he’s able to bring Marshall’s hand to his mouth. He’s entirely unthinking when he parts his lips and laves his tongue over Marshall’s finger. _Oh_ , the _taste_ of it. It’s been so long since he’s had this, had Marshall. And never when he has been in his own right mind, free from the influence of the alcohol.

Marshall jerks, attempting to pull his hand back when he gasps, but Ian holds tight, sucking the finger into his mouth and keeping the wound open with his finger.

“Ian,” Marshall gasps, “let me go at once.” He sounds breathy and afraid, but Ian can smell something under that, adrenaline, _excitement_.

It isn’t until Cash calls out, “Master Marshall!” that Ian lets go.

Marshall stumbles back a step, instantly pulling his hand up to his chest, gazing down at his finger. Ian’s saliva has already sealed the wound and it’s closing before Marshall’s eyes, scabbing already. He glances back up at Ian, a cool breeze floating between them, blowing their clothing and hair and the sound of Cash’s inquisitions become inaudible.

“How is it I only see you at night?” The question is so abrupt and frightening that Ian finds himself fumbling for an answer. Marshall continues, however, flush spreading across his cheeks, Ian can see, sense the flow of blood across his face and he finds himself licking his lips again. “What do you do with your days?”

Ian shakes his head, reaching slowly out for Marshall’s wrist, making sure he doesn’t pull away again before he steps in closer. Cash’s voice is vaguely louder, but Ian pays it no mind, resting his other hand on Marshall’s upper arm and squeezing. They’re close enough that he can whisper his answer, keep it from Cash. “My days are my own, my nights are yours.”

Marshall’s eyes lock with his and Ian can feel his pulse all around him, warm and perfect and he _wants_ it so badly it sets off an ache in his chest. “What scandals do you involve yourself in, Ian?”

“Give me tomorrow evening,” Ian says, ignoring him. Ian is suddenly aware that he is hard, painfully so, straining against his breeches and if one of them were to take another step Marshall would feel it. He can tell without feeling, just sensing the flow of Marshall’s blood, that Marshall is growing hard as well; he’s also frightened, terrified at it, so Ian doesn’t push.

“Tomorrow?”

“You said you played piano.” Marshall nods. “Play for me.”

Marshall hesitates and Cash is kicking up sand as he storms in. Ian doesn’t wait, he pulls Marshall in and presses their lips together; it’s chaste and fast and Ian doubts Cash even sees, but he still steps back, putting space between them.

“I should go,” he says. Marshall nods a little and Ian doesn’t give himself, nor Marshall, time to bid a proper goodnight before he’s hurrying off.

 

\--

 

Ian is beyond cheerful when he wakes up the next dusk. He's whistling as he puts on his clothes for the evening, and Gabriel eyes him strangely when he steps out of the back room. Ian only smiles back at him. He makes sure to feed, and feed healthily, before he makes his way to Marshall's home.

Marshall, not Cash, is who opens the door, and he smiles when he sees Ian. And even though Ian can hear Cash just around the corner, he sneaks forward, getting in one quick kiss on the lips. Marshall smiles wider before leading the way into an exquisitely decorated room, sparsely furnished, but with a grand piano in the center.

Marshall offers Ian a drink before he sits at the piano and his smile is just a bit mocking as he straightens his spine, pushes his shoulders back, flipping his shirttails. Ian smiles at him, taking a seat close to the bench, setting his glass down on the floor beside his feet.

Then Marshall plays. Ian doesn't know what he was expecting, if he was expecting anything at all, but he still feels like someone's knocked the wind from him as he watches Marshall's fingers fly over the keys, as Marshall sways a little on the piano bench, already lost in the music. The song is something he can't place, quick and light, but still resounding all throughout the room. Ian makes note to ask Marshall of it later.

Marshall tips his head back, lips parting, the long line of his throat exposed and Ian swallows hard. He has to stand up, quiet as he can, he has to walk towards Marshall. He stands near the piano, by Marshall's side, and he doesn't think Marshall realizes he’s there, fingers never pausing. Ian notices the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, as the room is stuffy, only one window cracked open.

Marshall doesn't start when Ian places a light hand on the back of his neck, fingers just brushing the shorter hair there, but his eyes do open, his fingers do stumble over a note or two before he's back into the flow of the song. He meets Ian's eyes, head on, and doesn't hold back any one of the emotions he's feeling just then. Marshall bites his lip.

Ian lets his other hand drop to one of Marshall's on the keys fast, perhaps too fast, because Marshall gasps, discordant notes filling the air for a moment. Then Ian is bending down over Marshall, pressing his lips to Marshall's. Ian lifts up the tiniest bit, licking his lips, then pressing their mouth together again, then again. He scratches his fingers through the hair at the nape of Marshall's neck, as if he were petting Sophia, and Marshall lets out the sweetest sound, chin pushing up to press his mouth against Ian's more firmly. Ian's feels something like triumph at that.

Marshall turns his hand over under Ian's, pushing down on a few keys in the process, and fits their fingers together. Ian slides their mouths together, tentatively running the tip of his tongue over Marshall's bottom lip. Ian can't really help the tiny sound he himself lets out when Marshall doesn't pull away, when he brings his other up to card his fingers through Ian's curls. He nearly moans when Marshall allows him to slip his tongue between his lips, make the kiss that much deeper.

Ian almost doesn't hear the coming footsteps, caught up in Marshall and his scent and the feel of his mouth, and he has to jerk away from Marshall just in time, stand himself on the other side of the piano. Marshall looks dazed, eyes wide and lips wet and parted.

"Is everything all right?" Cash asks from the doorway. His eyes move suspiciously from Ian to Marshall, still dazed looking at the piano bench. Marshall looks surprised to see him there, clearing his throat.

He wipes a hand across his mouth quickly, says, "Yes, perfectly fine. What is it, Cash?"

Cash still glances back and forth between them a couple times. "You promised Stump you'd call on him this evening."

Marshall blinks at him, nodding. "Of course. I'll be ready soon, just let me walk Ian out."

At the door, Marshall looks over his shoulder, seemingly making sure Cash hasn't followed them, and as soon as he faces Ian again, Ian kisses him hard and fast.

"What song was it that you played?" Ian asks, while Marshall is still staring at his mouth, breath uneven. Ian rubs his thumb under Marshall's lower lip.

"It doesn't have a name," Marshall says. "I wrote it some time ago."

"Oh," Ian says.

Marshall looks nervous suddenly, frowning a little. "I'll see you tomorrow." It sounds like he tries not to make it a question, but it still comes out with a slight upward lilt at the end.

"Yes," Ian grins. "Tomorrow."

 

\--

 

Ian wakes up much the same the next day, and wonders if he's falling into a pattern here in this place. The thought is unwelcome, as patterns and monotony are what brought him here in the first place, what make him restless. And with that thought comes William, of course it does. Ian has to push it away, think of Marshall instead and that's enough to bring him back into light spirits.

Cash answers the door, before Ian's fist has even connected with the wood. Cash's expression is sour, not uncommon these days really, but he doesn't say anything as he exits the house, taking the path towards the gate. Marshall appears in the open doorway.

"I told him that he should leave for awhile this evening," Marshall explains. He looks a bit guilty. "I told him to stop hovering."

Ian raises his eyebrows but steps into the house. He waits until the door has closed to kiss Marshall. He only means for it to be a quick thing, but then Marshall is kissing him back and Ian has to press him up against the closed door, ravish his mouth for a moment or two.

Marshall gasps a little when Ian pulls back, red across his cheeks. "Hello," Ian says, stepping away.

Marshall straightens against the door, brushing imaginary lint and dirt off of his coat. Ian tries not to laugh. "What would you like to do this evening?"

Ian pretends to think for a moment, finger tapping against his chin. "Well, Master Marshall, you never gave me a proper tour of your home."

"A tour?" Marshall blinks.

"A tour," Ian says, nodding.

This is how he finds himself following Marshall all through the large house, exploring the downstairs first. He walks behind Marshall too closely, nearly clipping his heels and blowing breath on the back of his neck. He only looks at Marshall innocently when he turns around, flustered.

They make their way to the second floor and Marshall shows him unused private rooms, guest rooms, Cash's room, and of course, his own bedroom. Marshall only cracks the door open, gesturing inside but Ian ducks under his arm and pushes into the room.

"Ian," Marshall says, looking on disapprovingly as Ian walks in. Ian doesn't answer him.

He turns all around, looking at everything carefully, as if he's never once been in the room before. The smell of him is just as powerful as the first night he'd sneaked in. He finds Sophia curled up on one of Marshall's pillows, one eye open to check on who has entered her territory. He grins, moving forward to pick her up. She meows loudly, probably unhappy to leave the cushion and Ian just strokes a hand down her back.

Marshall is smiling at the both of them when Ian glances up. He walks further into the room, stopping in front of Ian and reaching out a hand to scratch his fingertips behind Sophia's ears. She purrs.

"You never answered my questions," Marshall says quietly. Ian frowns down at Sophia, petting her once more before letting her jump from his arms.

"I didn't," Ian agrees. He looks at Marshall just in time to see the way his brow furrows, his mouth goes thin. Ian closes the space between them, hands slipping under Marshall's jacket and dropping onto his waist.

"Why are you different?" Marshall asks, but his gaze is already unfocused, dropping to Ian's mouth when he licks his lips.

"Everyone's different," Ian says, and kisses Marshall. He pulls him close by his hand around Marshall's waist, tilting his head and kissing him hard. Marshall kisses him back, one arm going around his shoulders and pulling him closer. Ian can't say that he isn't a little relieved.

They kiss sloppily, mouths open and lips sliding against each others. Marshall moans breathily, hips tilting forward, unconsciously seeking friction. But when Ian pushes back, hardening rapidly inside his breeches, Marshall jerks away from him.

Ian doesn’t let go, though. His arms remain tight around him, a hand fisting in his hair, tilting his head to the side and pressing hard, damp kisses down to his neck where Marshall’s pulse flutters rapidly. Ian groans and pushes forward again.

Then Marshall’s hands are fisting against his shoulders, he’s squirming ineffectually in Ian’s grip. Ian tightens down instinctively. “Marshall,” he growls, blinking his eyes open, but not removing his lips from the soft, tan skin of Marshall’s throat.

“Ian, wait,” he breathes, shuddering forward when Ian slips his fingers down just under the waistband of his pants. “This is—this can’t be all right.”

Ian blinks, lashes brushing against Marshall's skin. He presses his mouth against Marshall's pulse again, closing his lips over Marshall's visible heartbeat. He sucks, tonguing across the skin, hard enough to leave a mark. Marshall groans.

"Why not?" Ian demands, lips only parting from Marshall's skin long enough to spit those words out. It's dangerous, his mouth this close to all that _blood_ , and closer still, when he sucks bruises into Marshall's skin, but he can't pull his mouth away, at least not easily.

"Because," Marshall huffs. One hand fists in Ian's hair, pulling hard. He thinks, maybe, it's supposed to make Ian pull away, but all it does is make him moan into Marshall's throat, push his hips against Marshall's. "We're both _men_ , god," Marshall curses.

Ian grips Marshall's hips, pushing forward hard enough that they both rub against each other for one perfect moment. Marshall gasps, and Ian huffs a small laugh. "I'd noticed," he says.

Marshall shakes his head and Ian finds himself growling, panting against his throat. The skin is damp and dark, bruises already beginning to liter the side of Marshall’s neck. He leans in again, opening his mouth to scrape his teeth across the taut flesh and Marshall jerks into him again, pushing weakly at him.

“It isn’t right,” Marshall tries, voice faint and hands shaking, fingers unfurling to fist in Ian’s shirt and Ian finally pulls back. His head is throbbing with the need to sink his fangs in, drink from Marshall, push him into the wall and rut against him like an animal but he doesn’t. There is so much more to gain here than a quick release.

He kisses Marshall gently, parting his lips with his tongue and pushing in, teasing until Marshall responds tentatively. Ian pulls him in and down by a hand on the side of his head. Marshall’s hair sticks to Ian’s forehead, damp from sweat and Ian pulls out, breathing hard. His cock throbs between his legs and he wants to reach down, press the heel of his hand against it, but he focuses on Marshall’s wide, unsure eyes.

“No one will know what we do here,” Ian tells him. He can work on the fear later, convince Marshall there is no need for these stigmas between them. “No one,” he promises with another kiss.

Marshall looks at him, really looks at him, flushed and breath coming fast. Ian thinks, is afraid, for a moment that Marshall will protest again. He doesn't. Just cups the side of Ian's neck, leaning their foreheads together, the air hot between them. Ian waits.

"All right," Marshall whispers. He presses their lips together again, and Ian sighs into the kiss, making it deep and easy. He brings a hand up to trail down the side of Marshall's neck, fingertips light over the already apparent bruises. Marshall shudders against him, and that's when Ian finally thinks that there are far too many layers between them.

He knows he should go at least a little slow, he doesn't want Marshall to spook, so he only slides his hands over and up Marshall's chest, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. He slides his hands all the way down his arms, until the jacket falls to the floor. Marshall doesn't pull away again and Ian smiles into the kiss.

Marshall is tense still, not resisting, but not helping as Ian nuzzles in against his throat again, unable to stop sucking and biting the skin there, bringing blood as close to the surface as he dares. He trails his fingers down Marshall’s chest, popping buttons slowly as he goes, murmuring nonsense when Marshall begins to breakout in goosebumps.

“So good,” he whispers, tugging the material away until Marshall is bare-chested before him. Ian pulls back to look. “Beautiful, so beautiful.” He can’t help the way his mind races to William, how different they feel; Marshall warm and shaking, so painfully new to all of this.

“Ian—”

Ian shakes his head, turns them carefully but quickly, easing Marshall down onto the bed. “Be silent,” he whispers, pressing their lips together again. “I will take care of you.” He kneels on the bed between Marshall’s thighs, leaning down to bite at his chest, trailing upwards over flushed skin, dipping his tongue into the groove between his collarbones. “I promise.”

He allows himself to fall down onto Marshall carefully, settling his weight on top of him. Marshall's eyes close, small sounds escaping his lips, as he rests Ian's hips on top of Marshall's. Ian can feel Marshall hard against his hip, and Marshall probably feels the same too. Ian wriggles his hips until Marshall spreads his legs, allowing Ian to fall between them.

"Good," Ian whispers, and kisses Marshall again. He keeps the kiss mostly shallow, teases his tongue against Marshall's until Marshall's hand is fisting in his hair again. Until Marshall is the one to deepen the kiss, slip his own tongue between Ian's lips. Ian almost wants to grin.

He lets his hands roam over Marshall's bare chest, smooth skin and tensed muscles. He rubs his thumb over one nipple, sucking on Marshall's tongue in his mouth. Marshall lets out a sound, low and in his throat. Ian pushes his hips down at that, grinding their cocks together. Marshall pushes back up against him, hips rolling up, seeking more friction.

Ian breaks the kiss, sitting up and pushing Marshall back down when he tries to follow. He quickly shrugs off his coat, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt until he can shrug that off too. Marshall's eyes roam over his chest, seemingly drinking in the sight of Ian bare-chested and straddling him. Ian sucks his own lower lip into his mouth, willing his fangs to stay in place.

Marshall reaches for him and Ian grabs both of his wrists, pushing them down as he grinds forward again. Both of them are straining against the fabric of their breeches, and Ian rubs them together, hard for a moment, concentrating everything there until Marshall jerks beneath him and Ian stills. This can’t be over so soon.

Marshall swallows visibly and Ian watches his throat work; he wants to bury his teeth in it. “Ian, please.” Ian knows Marshall isn’t even sure what he’s asking for, but he twists against his grip regardless and Ian releases him, standing beside the bed, shoving his pants down to pool at his ankles before climbing back between Marshall’s legs.

“Relax,” he whispers, leaning up over him, kissing Marshall’s lips until his mouth goes soft again and he kisses back. “Lift,” Ian tells him. Marshall does, eyebrows tight and back stiff, but Ian manages to tug the fabric of his breeches down and away. His eyes widen, watching as Marshall springs free. Ian wraps his hand around Marshall’s cock immediately, stroking hard but slow. Marshall nearly bucks him right off the bed, crying out, loud and hysterical. He claws at Ian’s arms and Ian kisses him to silence him; Cash may be out for the evening but there are other servants in Marshall’s home. He strokes at Marshall’s cheek, his other hand squeezed tight around the base of his arousal. “Quiet, quiet,” Ian purrs, trying to sound reassuring when all he wants to do is take himself in hand as well and bring them both off.

“This is my house,” Marshall pants, breathless, “I will make sound.”

Ian grins slowly, can't help the laugh that he lets out at hearing that. He rubs his thumb over Marshall's bottom lip. He takes his palm away from Marshall's cock, licking it before taking him in hand again.

"Then make sound," Ian tells him, just as he squeezes Marshall's cock almost hard enough to hurt, stroking that way from base to tip. Marshall cries out, nearly bucks him off the bed, which is really saying something. Ian holds him down, moving his hand from Marshall's cheek to his hip, holding him down. Ian doesn't let up, still stroking up and down, and Marshall throws his head back against the pillows.

Ian's eyes zero in on his throat, his fluttering pulse. His cock pulses between his legs, and then he's leaning down, thrusting his cock against Marshall's hip. He slides against Marshall's skin, bending to push his tongue into Marshall's mouth. Marshall seems too overcome to properly kiss back, lips parted and breathing harsh as he jerks up into Ian's touch.

"Marshall," Ian says, pressing his cheek against Marshall's. He grabs one of Marshall's hands, one that had been fisted in the sheet, and brings it to his cock. Marshall's eyes open at that, glancing between them, then at Ian. He wraps his fingers around Ian, finally, but tentatively. He strokes slowly, mostly copying what Ian does to him first. Ian squeezes, eyes clenching shut when Marshall does the same to him.

Ian stills a moment, prying Marshall’s hand from his cock, raising it to his mouth and licking across the palm before letting go. Marshall reclaims his grip on Ian’s dick immediately, working his hand in a shaky, stilted replication of Ian’s own hand on him. “That’s it,” he purrs, thrusting forward into the tight lock of Marshall’s fingers. “Perfect, absolutely.”

Ian rolls his hips, heat pooling in his belly, in the small of his back; stomach tensing already. Marshall cries out when Ian brings his other hand down between them, rubbing his knuckles at the skin behind his balls and down further. He groans Ian’s name, shouts it, wild and desperate and Ian can’t tear his eyes away from Marshall’s throat.

His pulse throbs _madly_ , Ian can _see_ it. He wants it, more than anything, so badly. He feels primal and base in a way that relieves him of his self control and he leans in, fangs descending the moment Marshall’s skin touches his nose.

His teeth sink into Marshall's skin too easily, and Marshall's hand goes painfully tight on his cock. Ian moans as the blood fills his mouth, sucking and sucking more from the bite.

Marshall has gone still under him, hand unmoving on Ian's cock. Ian jerks up into his loosening fist, his own hand still stroking Marshall. Marshall's scent had been so strong, with excitement and only a little fear, but now that fear spikes hard and fast, filling Ian's senses with it.

Marshall lets go of his cock, bringing both hands up to grip Ian's shoulders, push at them. It does nothing of course, Ian's mouth still fixed to Marshall's neck, blood still going down his throat. Marshall tastes just like that first night outside, better maybe, and Ian thinks he could probably come from this still, just from rutting against Marshall's thigh if he won't put his hands on Ian.

"Ian," Marshall says, and his voice is breathy, panic apparent in it. He pushes at Ian's shoulders harder. He tries to jerk away from Ian. "Stop it!"

Ian growls, pushing in hard against the sharp cut of Marshall’s hip and sucking, digging his teeth in _so_ , so deep. Marshall screams then, a hand collides with the side of Ian’s head and the very second he regains the clarity to think, _what am I doing?_ , Marshall twists and Ian jerks back, tearing his teeth straight through the side of Marshall’s neck.

Ian’s eyes widen, feeling Marshall’s blood running down his chin and Marshall crying, thrashing under him, screaming frantically for Cash. Ian’s heart gives a painful lurch in his chest and he snaps abruptly back to himself, lunging forward, one hand over Marshall’s mouth and the other over the wound on his neck.

“Quiet, be quiet!” Ian hisses. Marshall sobs under his hand, shaking and clawing at his arms. “Hold still.”

Ian releases his mouth to hold him down by his forehead. Blood is soaking the sheets, too much too fast and Ian panics; he leans down and bites in again. Marshall cries out, kicking at him. “Get off me! _Cash_! _Please_!”

“Marshall,” Ian hushes him, eyes pleading, pulling away. He’s sure he looks deranged, covered in Marshall’s blood and telling him to be silent. “You must be quiet, I can fix it.” He doesn’t wait for Marshall to respond, just ducks down, teeth sinking in, holding the skin together as he laps up the blood, cleaning the wound, sealing it back together with his saliva.

He can feel the skin mending beneath his tongue, but Marshall still doesn't stop trying to thrash Ian off of him, only kept still by Ian's hands on him. Ian feels regret and something like shame, knowing that he hurt Marshall for however short an amount of time. It's a strange feeling.

Ian pulls away once the wound is healed, forcing himself not to lap at the blood that's still spilled across Marshall's skin. Marshall is practically red in the face, from panic and from trying to get Ian off of him, hands beating at Ian's sides.

"Marshall, Marshall," Ian repeats, a thread of panic through his own voice. "I didn't mean to, that wasn't supposed to happen."

Marshall does not seem to hear. That, or he chooses to ignore it. His eyes are wide, and he doesn't seem to be seeing Ian in front of him, but probably something far worse. Ian realizes his fangs are still out. "Get out! Leave!"

Ian lets go of Marshall, backing away and climbing off the bed. Marshall immediately scrambles backwards, hand to the side of his healed neck. He huddles against the headboard, staring at Ian where he stands.

Ian tries again. He holds his hands out in front of him. "Marshall, please."

For a split second Marshall’s fight seems to evaporate. He whispers low and fearful, “What _are_ you?” 

Ian tries to step forward, reach out to him again but Marshall shrinks back. “Marshall, just listen to me.”

“Out!” Marshall shouts again, holding his throat tightly. When Ian finally tugs his breeches back up and grabs his shirt from the floor there comes a heavy pounding on his door.

“Marshall? I could hear you outside, open the door!” Cash’s voice is worried and Ian jumps at the sound. “Marshall!”

“Cash!” Marshall somehow shouts and sobs at the same time. “Help me, please.”

Ian yanks the door open, darting out past Cash before he can stop him. He’s out of the house and through the gate, all the way to the woods before he stops, drops to his knees and grips his forehead. He aches everywhere, his body screaming for more of Marshall’s blood, his head pounding as though it’s going to cave in. He nearly forces himself to vomit but he can’t; doesn’t want to give up Marshall’s blood.

Ian makes it down to the ocean on unsteady feet, dipping his shirt into the water and scrubbing it over his face. He can’t go back to the tavern like this. Gabriel will put that sharpened piece of wood in his chest the moment he sets eyes on him. He probably will when he hears about it anyway.

It’s then that Ian realizes he can’t go back to the tavern. Cash will come for him, without a doubt. Maybe worse. Ian finds himself choking down a sob. He should have known better, he shouldn’t have come, he can’t _do_ this. Ian sinks down, shoulders slumped, eyes burning; defeated.

He should have listened to William. He should have stayed in England.

 

\--

 

Ian stumbles back along the shortcut he'd taken, cutting through the woods to get to the ocean. Luckily, he thinks, it's late enough that there aren't people out, no one to stare at him. He may have wiped away most of the blood, but he still looks, feels, unraveled. He feels strange, unsteady and shaken. He aches all over, for no apparent reason. But he keeps forward, making his way towards Gabriel's tavern. No doubt, Gabriel would put a stake through his heart as soon as he sees him, but Ian needs the few belongings he's collected and brought with him from London. 

He slips through a back entrance of the tavern, as silently as he can manage. He gathers his things, stuffing them into his coat pockets quickly. He can hear the loud sounds of the people in the main room of the tavern, talking and laughing. He can hear Gabriel's laughter, and it gives him pause. And then he's cursing at himself, for being weak, for letting any human at all affect him. The way he's connected to these few human here is frightening. He's almost not sure what it means. 

Ian slips back out, unnoticed. The sun will be up soon, he can feel it like a prickle at the back of his neck. He nearly puts his fist through a wall next to him, brick or no. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the ever creeping sunlight. He makes his way back towards the woods, straying from any paths anyone might follow, and deeper. He walks far enough away that the trees are large, branches and limbs stretching and blocking out the light. With the sun fully in the sky, it would probably only look like a late evening here. It's still not enough. 

He finds an outcrop of rock, dark underneath. He rolls beneath it, and this will have to do for now, this will have to keep him from the light. This will have to do until he can get Marshall to forgive him, until he can make things right again. 

 

\-- 

 

Unsurprisingly, Ian sleeps fitfully, with dreadful, dark dreams that he can't easily remember once he wakes up. Ian can't say that he's not a little unwilling to go back towards any semblance of civilization and people, but he's hungry. He needs to feed, and he knows things could get much worse if he tries to ignore the hunger. 

He makes himself as presentable as possible, switching his shirt for one that doesn't still have spots of Marshall's blood on it. He's sure that he looks unwell to anyone out, flinching at loud noises and shadows. He approaches a middle-aged man in a suit. 

"Excuse me, sir?" Ian says. "I was wondering if you could answer a question of mine. See, I found something peculiar over here." 

Once the man is beside him in the dark place between the two shops, Ian cracks him over the head with the back of his hand. Hard enough to knock him out, light enough to not leave too much of a bruise. He catches the man before he falls to the ground, propping him against the wall, attaching his mouth to the man's neck. 

It's almost pathetic, the way the taste of the man's blood seems dull. It's a task, feeding from the man, nothing compared to Marshall's essence. He closes the wound with his tongue and saliva, letting the man slide down the wall and slump onto his side. He steps back, straightening his jacket and shirt. 

The hit to his side takes him by complete surprise, and he's backed against the wall, head cracking against the stone a second later. Gabriel presses close, hand white-knuckled around a sharpened piece of wood that he presses over Ian's heart. It's held at an angle, as if he knows from experience that he will have to shove the wood upwards, through Ian's ribcage, to get at his heart properly. Ian meets his eyes, sagging against the wall. 

"Is that man dead?" Gabriel asks. Ian has never seen him quite this way, no expression on his face, mouth tight and eyes shuttered. 

"No," Ian answers. As if to help, the man makes a low, disoriented noise, but doesn't wake up. 

Gabriel presses the tip against Ian's chest a little harder. "What the hell did you to Marshall?" 

Ian looks away then, eyes downcast as he shakes his head. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, until Gabriel pushes the stake against him again, impatient. "I didn't mean to, Gabriel, I didn't mean him harm." He looks up again. "It was an accident." 

Gabriel sneers. "I'll bet." 

Ian's mouth tightens, but he says nothing. He can smell the adrenaline pumping through Gabriel, and other sharp emotions. Almost no fear. He doesn't try to knock the stake from Gabriel's hands. He doesn't try to get away. 

He thinks he sees a flicker of confusion cross Gabriel's face when he realizes that Ian isn't fighting back. "Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?" 

He probably should be fighting back, Ian thinks dully. He should be trying to get away. Why isn't he? 

Gabriel stares at him, hand tightening even more around the stake. Finally, he makes a rough sound in his throat, turning away. He steps back, stake still raised. He doesn't look at Ian as he says, "If I see you again, I won't be so kind." 

Gabriel takes another step back. When Ian doesn't move fast enough, he says, "Get on." 

Ian nods at him, stepping away from the wall and out from between the shops. 

"And Ian," Gabriel calls. Ian turns his head. "You'd do well to stay out of Cash's path. He wouldn't spare your heart for anything." 

Ian nods again, walking away quickly and heading back to the forest, towards the denser parts, and he can't stop his mind from racing. Gabriel could have ended him, and Ian wouldn't have done a damn thing to stop him. He would've let Gabriel drive that stake into his heart, and what for? Because of Marshall. All of his problems, mysteries, these days came back to Marshall. 

He hurts when he thinks of how Marshall had looked at him, shrank back from him, and he shouldn't. He's reminded of the feeling he'd get when William disapproved of something he did, when William was disappointed in him. And, with a sinking feeling in his chest, he realizes that he cares for Marshall. Maybe much more. 

He drops down next to the rock he'd slept against the day before. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'll fix things with Marshall. He's not sure what he'll do if he can't.

 

\--

 

It ends up being two days before Ian is able to talk himself into going back to Marshall’s. He’s determined to fix this somehow, but he’s afraid at the same time. His body feels cold at the thought of Marshall looking at him the way Gabriel did. The disgust, the anger, even worse, the betrayal. He finally forces himself out of hiding and trudges slowly through the woods, along the path he’s sure he’d know even if he hadn’t traveled it just the day before. He can smell Marshall all over it; it’s weak, but definitely there.

Ian doesn’t bother with the gate, he heads around back and jumps the stone fence, crouching down in the darkness. He makes his way carefully over towards Marshall’s room, staring up and moving slowly; it’ll do no good to startle him into calling for Cash, who will no doubt tear him in two at this point.

Ian licks his lips, breathing deeply. Marshall’s window is cracked, he can smell the strong scent of him, the way he breathes too rapidly to be asleep. He’s up, pacing the floor. Ian feels his movements, following his pulse and smell; his mouth begins watering and Ian shakes himself hard.

He waits a presumed eternity for Marshall to make his way towards the window, but it never happens. Ian looks around, toeing the ground until he unearths several small stones. He flicks one at the window and listens to the pitch of Marshall’s breathing, smells the fear, the spike in his heart rate. Ian tosses another, listening to the clink of rock on glass, watching as Marshall finally appears.

Ian forgets he’s even alive sometimes until moments like this steal his breath.

Marshall is pale, even across the distance it’s easy to see. He looks worn and afraid and he has a bandage wrapped the entire way around his throat. Ian’s eyebrows draw together in concern; he hadn’t been able to really work to make sure the wound healed properly, or decently. He can only imagine what it looks like right now.

It’s the guilt that makes him step forward into the yard, making himself visible. Marshall gasps but doesn’t make any other sound.

“Marshall,” Ian tries, calling up quietly, trying to keep the servants—Cash—from hearing. “Please, let me speak with you.”

To his surprise, Marshall pushes the window up further and leans out a little. He’s fearful, but brave in his own home. Ian wishes he could voice concern for that, for what other predators could take advantage of that, but he doesn’t. He waits.

“Leave,” Marshall says, voice heavy in the nighttime silence. “I’ll call for Cash if you don’t leave right this very moment.”

Ian braves a few steps closer, holding his hands out, imploring. “Marshall, what happened was an accident.”

“You’re a monster,” Marshall growls, pulling back inside. “I’m getting Cash.”

When he vanishes, Ian doesn’t wait. He springs forward onto the rail of the downstairs porch and pulls himself up easily onto the first floor roof, jumping to Marshall’s windowsill and crawling inside. Marshall spins around at the sound, his bedroom door open. His eyes go wide, he pales even further, if it were possible, and sucks in a breath to scream.

Ian slams him back against the door, closing it with the force and holding his hand over Marshall’s mouth. Ian can’t help breathe him in; he’s _terrified_.

He licks his lips involuntarily. “I mean you no harm, Marshall,” he whispers. “I swear it, just give me a moment to explain.” Marshall’s eyes remain huge in his face. He shakes his head and makes a pitiful sound when Ian licks his lips. “I will not hurt you,” he says, quiet and forceful at the same time. He catches Marshall’s eyes and tries to convey his sincerity in silence. Ian feels him swallow, senses his heartbeat, strong and too fast still, but finally he nods. “Please don’t scream.”

Marshall doesn’t promise a thing and Ian pulls back slowly, his hand damp from being pressed to Marshall’s lips, the other hard against the door.

“Explain yourself,” Marshall whispers, voice cracking, pressed back as far as possible.

Ian licks his lips again, he can’t help it; he can taste everything on the air. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“With why you bit me,” Marshall snaps. “What in the hell are you?”

Marshall meets his gaze again, hand still on the doorknob and sweating nervously.

“Not of your world,” he finally says.

Marshall shudders, making a small, scared sound, turning and pulling at the door again. Ian easily leans in, pressing him chest first against the wood. Marshall sobs a little and Ian runs both hands up and down his sides, attempting at soothing.

“I lost control of myself,” he continues, holding Marshall still as he squirms, reaching for his hand and pulling it from the doorknob. “It will never happen again.”

Marshall shakes his head. “It won’t. You leave, now, I don’t ever want you—to see you again.” He sniffs hard and Ian just finds himself pressing closer.

“Marshall, please.” He lifts a hand, pulling at the bandage around his neck. Marshall fights him when he feels it falling loose.

“Don’t, don’t touch me!” he gasps, letting out a wet-sounding whine when Ian holds him immobile against the door. Ian unfurls the bandage, letting it fall to the floor when it comes loose. He strokes his fingers over the scar, turning Marshall’s head to the side so he can examine it in the weak light filtering in from the moon outside. It’s healed now, completely scarred over already, and Ian was right; it’s sloppy and angry-looking, jagged and uneven.

“Marshall,” Ian whispers, dropping his head to press an apologetic kiss there. “I tried—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he finally says. Marshall’s fingers curl against the door and he presses his forehead against it. Ian holds on, hands flat against his chest as he rubs his face against the back of Marshall’s neck and Marshall cries himself out.

When Ian pulls a little, pulling Marshall away from the door, he goes with Ian. He lets Ian tug and push him towards the bed. Marshall seems out of it, laying down without a fight when Ian guides him that way. The crying has mostly stopped, but Marshall still has a hand over his mouth, breath jerky and uneven. Ian sits at his side, stroking Marshall's hair off of his forehead, stopping when he turns his face away.

"Why did you come back?" Marshall asks, voice scratchy. He's flushed, eyes red. The turn of his head allows Ian to see the scar clearly. He glances away.

"Because I care for you," Ian says, honest. "I needed you to know that I would never harm you purposefully."

Marshall's face scrunches up when he hears that, as if it causes him pain. "What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you'll give me," Ian says quickly, then bites his lip. He sounds like an idiot.

Marshall blinks at him. Ian drops a hand onto his, covering Marshall fingers with his own. Marshall doesn't pull away. Ian feels some unnamed emotion swell in his chest. He wonders if Marshall would be afraid again if Ian were to lay down beside him.

Marshall laughs, turning his head when it becomes a cough. He nearly chokes, turning onto his side, away from Ian, who just places a hand on his back.

“Marshall, are you well?”

Ian isn’t surprised when Marshall shakes his head. “Would you be?” he asks, rubbing hard at his eyes before rolling onto his back again.

Ian feels the skin around his eyes tighten when he frowns; he suddenly feels every single moment of his age catching up with him. He laughs mirthlessly into his own hand before looking back down at Marshall who is just staring up at him with tired, damp eyes.

“I suppose not, no,” Ian finally says.

Marshall actually smiles at him and Ian goes tense before he allows himself to breathe, reaching for Marshall’s hand and running the tip of his index finger against the scar on Marshall’s throat. He winces when Marshall does; it must still be sensitive. “I’m sorry,” Ian tells him again. “I’ve never lost control like that before.”

“I don’t find that particularly comforting,” Marshall says, voice too light, blinking going heavy.

Ian brushes his hair back again, opening his mouth to speak when suddenly the door opens.

"Marshall, I—" Cash cuts himself off, eyes going comically wide as he sees Ian on the bed with Marshall. The room goes too silent, as Cash's eyes flick from Marshall to Ian to Marshall.

"Cash," Marshall says, carefully, and that's all it takes for Cash to be throwing himself across the room, actually tackling Ian off of the bed.

They slide across too-expensive sheets, slide until they hit the hard-wood floor on the other side of the bed. Ian's head cracks against the floor, landing badly with Cash's weight on top of him, and it might've been enough to kill or seriously injure an actual human. He's dazed from it long enough that it allows Cash to scramble up, get in a good punch across Ian's jaw. Ian just blinks for a moment, mouth filling with blood from his own teeth cutting the inside of his cheek.

"Cash!" Marshall has climbed from the bed, hands going under Cash's armpits to pull him off of Ian. He looks panicked. Cash hits Ian across the temple this time. "Don't!"

Cash must allow himself to be pulled backwards and up. He stands straightening his clothes, glaring at Ian murderously. Marshall looks relieved.

"Get out of this house," Cash growls. He's breathing hard through his nose, face red.

Ian sits up slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He keeps an eye on Cash as he stands up carefully.

Marshall's hands are fluttering in the air, as if he'd like to go to Ian, like to go to Cash. "Cash, this isn't necessary."

Cash looks at Marshall incredulously. "Did you hit your head somewhere? Is this not the same man I found crouching next to you, covered in your blood?"

Marshall looks distraught, nervous. "Yes, but—" he stops, biting his lip.

There is still a fine tremor all throughout Cash's body, still shaking from anger. "You didn't even," Cash says, staring at Marshall now, "you didn't call for me. I don't understand this." He seems to remember that Ian is still in the room. He starts toward him, growling, "Get the hell out," but Marshall yanks him back, hands tight around his shoulders.

"It was an accident," Marshall hisses. His eyes flick to Ian and back. Ian feels like a great weight has left his shoulders. "He apologized for it."

"Apologized for nearly killing you?" Cash explodes. He jerks away from Marshall, eyes too wide. "I would never—" Cash stops, doesn't finish the sentence. 

“Cash, please,” Marshall murmurs, keeping a hand on his chest. “It’s all right.”

“It’s all right?” Cash snaps, grabbing Marshall by the upper arm and shaking him slightly. Ian watches, mouth sore, blood dampening his lips until he rubs his tongue over the cuts his fangs made in his mouth to stop the flow. “It’s not all right, Alex!” Marshall stills at the use of his first name.

“Cash…”

“I’m serious, Marshall. You let him in here? After what he did? He almost _killed_ you. You called for me.” Cash suddenly pulls away. “You asked me, Marshall, you _asked_ me when your father passed away to move in here. I’ve taken care of you for four years—”

Marshall takes hold of his sleeve. “What are you saying?” Cash shakes his head, twisting his arm, glaring at Ian. “Cash, Cassius, I love you, my friend. You know that.”

“What do you expect me to say? He’s an abomination, he’s a monster, Marshall, look at him.”

And Marshall does, glancing back at the carefully guarded emotion on Ian’s face, the way he sniffs back the blood and stares imploringly right back.

“Cash, I care for him,” Marshall finally says.

Ian steps forward then, reaching out and curling a hand around Marshall’s wrist and Cash snarls, yanking Marshall away.

Marshall turns Cash to look at him, finally beginning to look angry himself. "He's not going anywhere." Marshall looks as shocked as Cash does, once the words are out of his mouth. Ian's sure that he himself probably looks surprised at that. "He's staying."

Cash steps back from Marshall, looking as if he's been burned by the words. He pulls away when Marshall reaches for him again. "I can't be expected to keep you safe if you want to live with the danger itself."

"What are you saying?" Marshall asks, but it's for naught because Cash storms out of the room then, slamming the door after himself.

Marshall looks pained, staring at the door. Ian steps forward again, hand light on his shoulder. When Marshall doesn't pull away he presses his forehead to Marshall's shoulder, hand wrapping around his bicep.

"He'll come around," Ian promises quietly. "He cares for you too much."

Marshall is still, eyes pinned on the door. “How can I be certain?” he finally asks and Ian lifts his head. “That you won’t kill me,” he clarifies, turning to face Ian.

Ian just looks at him, bringing both hands up to his neck, fingers gentle over the fresh scarring on his skin. He brings Marshall closer until their foreheads are pressed together and Marshall closes his eyes, reaching up until his fingers curl over Ian’s wrists. Ian tilts his head until he can kiss Marshall, chaste and careful. He pulls back enough to mumble, “If I wanted you dead I’d have killed you by now.”

Marshall shudders involuntarily but he doesn’t move away. Instead he wraps his arms around Ian’s neck and Ian has to resist the urge to purr or something equally ridiculous. “I suppose you’re right.” Ian nods against his cheek.

“I won’t harm you, not like that, not on purpose.” He carefully does not promise there won’t be some form of a repeat incident. He can’t. But he knows Marshall gets it. He sinks in closer and Ian closes his eyes.

Marshall buries his fingers in Ian's hair, tugging lightly. "You've moved from Gabriel's," he says. Ian looks at him, questioning. "Cash went looking for you, after—after what happened." He stumbles over the last part, eyes flicking away from Ian's, and Ian has to press forward, brush their lips together. Say sorry with his mouth, but not aloud.

"Yes," he says, pressing a kiss to Marshall's cheek. "I have."

Marshall's eyes close again, and he sighs. "Where did you stay?"

Ian tries not to tense, though he does pause. "Doesn't matter."

Marshall looks at him then, pulling back slightly. Ian presses forward to make up for it and Marshall's mouth twitches with a small smile. "You can stay here, in the cellar."

Ian can't help the smile he has then, wide and relieved. Marshall doesn't match it, but he does pull Ian close, bury his face between Ian's neck and shoulder. Ian does the same, inhaling Marshall's scent deeply. "I will," he says, though, by now, he's sure it's unnecessary.

 

\--

 

The week that follows Ian’s move into the cellar is like living with a ghost. Ian sees the way Cash ignores Marshall, how he goes out of his way to be around as little as possible. Ian’s not sure what Cash does during the day because he’s holed up in the cellar on the bed Marshall had prepared for him, far away from the cracks in the door. But during the evening he’s rarely to be found.

He’s stopped taking his meals with Marshall, he’s stopped accompanying the both of them whenever they leave the property. He’s stopped existing where Ian is involved, and unfortunately for Marshall, that’s whenever Ian’s awake.

Ian knows Marshall wants to be around him, is certain of it in the way he wakes some nights to Marshall sitting in the grass beside the cellar doors, waiting for him. Ian knows he’s honest in that he cares, the way he kisses back when Ian initiates contact. But he still pulls away when his hands find Marshall’s skin, looks sheepish and uncomfortable whenever Cash should happen by wherever they stand.

Ian hears the door slam when he goes out every night; knows that Marshall does too. He sees it in the slump of his shoulders when he sits at the piano, plays for Ian. He feels it when he digs his fingers into the muscles of Marshall’s back to rub out the tension. Marshall radiates sadness and what’s worse is Ian knows he’s partially to blame.

“You can’t hold yourself accountable for another’s actions,” Marshall tells him when Ian finally admits he should speak with Cash.

“It’s making you miserable to have me here,” Ian says.

Marshall takes hold of the front of his waistcoat and pulls him in until Ian rests his hands on Marshall’s waist and his eyes nearly cross when he tries to focus on Marshall, their foreheads pressed together. “You make me anything but,” Marshall tells him, rubbing his head back and forth.

Ian’s fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt and he sighs. “I should still speak to him. You’ve been friends for a lifetime with him.”

“He would sooner see you dead,” Marshall whispers.

Ian kisses him then, tilting Marshall’s head with a hand on the back of his neck into the right position, pushing his tongue in. Marshall responds, kissing back hard and fast, cradling Ian’s head in both hands. But Marshall shudders away when Ian’s thumb caresses the gnarled skin on his neck.

“You should go,” Marshall tells him and Ian’s stomach sinks with guilt.

He pulls back, however, straightening the fabric of his vest from where Marshall’s hands had rumpled it. He smoothes back his own hair and nods. “I should.”

“I’m sorry,” Marshall says, sounding meek and regretful.

Ian shakes his head and leans in, Marshall instantly dipping down to press their lips together. Ian strokes his cheek briefly before dropping contact. “I really shouldn’t touch you until I feed.”

Marshall doesn’t disagree. He drops his gaze and nods a little. “Do you kill them?” he asks, looking up and biting his lip.

Ian nearly says _no_ before he stops himself, hesitating before saying quietly, “Not usually.”

“Oh,” Marshall says, scratching at his temple.

Ian touches his arm, pulling him in so he can press his lips to Marshall’s ear before he eases back. “I’ll see you soon.”

Marshall nods, doesn’t see him to the door, but Ian is getting used to this still so he grants Marshall the room to be slightly uncomfortable and trots down the stairs, past Sophia—stopping to pet her—before collecting his coat and leaving near silently.

He heads for town.

 

\--

 

Ian nearly drains a man whom he leaves in an alley, close to the road and uncaring. He can smell Gabriel, knows he’s close by the tavern. Ian wipes his mouth on the inside of his jacket sleeve before stepping back out onto the street and straightening his hat. The wind is strong, the air heavy with impending rain. He wants to get back as soon as possible, but he knows he needs to clear things up with his former friend. Some things just cannot wait.

The tavern is fairly empty, still early in the evening and Gabriel looks up from the bar, smile falling from his face when Ian enters. His hand drops below sight and Ian raises a hand at him.

“Be at ease,” he says, weaving through mostly vacant tables towards him.

Gabriel is standing with his hand around the same sharpened piece of wood Ian has seen one too many times for his own liking, but he can hardly find fault in him. “What are you doing here?” he asks, voice tight.

“I’ve come to speak with you,” Ian tells him, gesturing towards the back hall. “You have few customers, it would be all right for you to leave them briefly?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Mister Crawford.”

Ian refuses to let himself look weary. He rubs a hand against his jaw and says, “As you wish. I would prefer not to speak here.”

“I would prefer not to be alone with you,” Gabriel says, leaning against the bar.

Ian takes a seat on the other side, removing his hat and setting it down on the counter, folding his hands in front of him. “I’ve come to apologize. You’ve done me nothing but good since I arrived here and I recklessly put your wellbeing at stake.”

Gabriel eyes him suspiciously. “You ought to be saying this to Master Marshall.”

Ian looks about a little before leaning in to keep his tone down. “I am living with Master Marshall,” he says.

Gabriel’s eyes go wide. “Living with him,” he repeats.

Ian nods. “He’s been kind enough to allow me room under his home.”

“That would explain why Cash is here every night drowning himself in drink.”

Ian feels himself tense, the way his face falls a little. “I’ve never had the intention to cause Cash harm.”

Gabriel snorts, leaning in with his arms folded on the bar top. “Lie to everyone but yourself.”

Ian purses his lips, looking off before turning his hat in his hands repeatedly. “I never wanted to hurt Marshall in any way. Hurting Cash would be one in the same.”

Gabriel laughs again, pulling back and turning around to get a glass for Ian. “You are full of surprises, Mister Crawford,” he says.

 

\--

 

When Ian gets back to the house, Marshall is not to be found in the backyard nor his room. Ian can scent him though, smell him on the upstairs landing and, after a tense moment, realizes that he's in Cash's room. He fed before coming back, of course he did, but his fangs still ache to descend, he wants to hiss, as if he were an angry animal. He doesn't.

Ian backtracks, leaving the house and quietly closing doors after himself. He jumps onto the rail of the back porch, much like the night he'd come to get Marshall to forgive him, and pulls himself up onto the roof. He does not crawl inside Marshall's room though, but walks carefully across until he's just by Cash's window. He can hear Marshall's voice floating out.

He creeps forward, pressing himself just beside the window, still out of sight. He almost feels briefly guilty, listening in, betraying Marshall's trust, but then he hears Cash's voice and forgets to.

"I just don't understand how you can forgive him so easily," Cash says, low and quiet.

There's silence, tense and thick. Then the sound of an old bed frame groaning, like another person climbed onto a bed that was only used to one person at a time. The room is all Cash, his smell, but Marshall's is strong and it mixes with Cash's as if they're close. And Ian knows, he _knows_ that they're curled around each other in Cash's bed just now. Ian's hands clench on the roof.

"I've told you," Marshall says, and it's quiet, so quiet. He doesn't have need for his voice to carry between them, probably. "I care for him."

There's a rough sound, as if Cash is scoffing. "You hardly _know_ him."

"And you do?" Marshall shoots back.

"No," Cash says. "But I care for _you_."

There's a pause before Marshall answers then, uncomfortable. "I know. I care for you too."

More rustling sounds, maybe them shifting closer or farther apart, Ian can't tell. They don't speak again and Ian leaves as silently as he came, jumping from the roof. When he enters the house again, he makes far more noise than necessary, far more noise than he needs to.

Soon, Marshall is coming down the stairs, smiling when he sees Ian with Sophia in his arms. He steps half behind Ian, hand on his shoulder, other coming up to pet Sophia. She purrs between the two of them until Ian lets her go, bending down to drop her to the floor.

He turns quickly, wrapping his arms around Marshall's waist. Marshall laughs softly, arms over Ian's shoulders. Ian buries his face between Marshall's neck and shoulder.

"You smell like him," Ian says, and he hadn't meant to, not aloud at least.

Marshall pulls back slightly, enough that he can look at Ian. "Like who?" he asks. He doesn't look upset at Ian’s statement, just curious.

Ian clears his throat, says, "Like Cash." He glances up through his lashes to see Marshall's reaction.

Marshall looks thoughtful, eyes shifting past Ian. "You can smell him on me?"

If Ian can hardly blush anymore but he's sure he would be doing so now. "Yes."

Marshall raises his eyebrows. "I talked to him, in his room."

Ian is proud of himself when he doesn't blurt out 'I know' at hearing that. "Oh?" he says instead. "About what?"

"You," Marshall says, meeting his again. Ian's not sure if he expected the honesty or not. "I think he's forgiven me, but he—" he stops there, looking embarrassed.

"He still despises me," Ian finishes; he shrugs. "I can't blame him." If anyone ever stole the affections of one Alex Marshall from Ian, he's sure there would be blood and much more.

Marshall bends down, forehead to Ian's. He whispers, "Who knows, he may come around some day."

Ian grins widely, at all that that sentence implies. Mostly that he'll be around long enough to see if Cash ever does warm to him or not.

"Highly doubtful," Ian says, brushing his lips against Marshall's. Marshall's mouth curls in a smile, even as he hums his agreement. "But thank you."

 

\--

 

Ian wakes up dazed and tired, his head pounding in a way it only does if he’s up during the daylight. He sits up slowly, hand over his eyes even though it’s nearly perfect darkness in the cellar.

Nearly.

“Marshall?” he mumbles, turning away from the lantern Marshall has set down beside him. Any light hurts at this point. “Put it out, please.”

Marshall makes a worried sound, mumbles, “Sorry,” and extinguishes the flame. “I didn’t think it’d hurt.”

Ian can see just fine in the dark, he reaches out to take Marshall’s hand and pulls him forward until he’s laying atop Ian. “My eyes are sensitive to all light in the day.”

“I’m sorry,” Marshall says again.

Ian rubs at his shoulders, nudging his nose into Marshall’s hair and breathing deeply; the ache in his head seems to dull just a little. “What do you need?”

Marshall fumbles for Ian’s hand in the dark and takes it. “Cash had breakfast with me this morning.”

Ian tries not to tense, but he’s tired and achy and he can’t really help it. “Oh.”

“I think he’s going to be okay with this.”

Ian doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, when he says, “His intentions are questionable.”

Marshall tenses this time, sitting up abruptly from Ian and turning his back. Ian groans outwardly at the strain of having to sit up, to press his forehead against Marshall’s neck and squeeze both of his upper arms.

“You have no right to speak,” Marshall says.

“You’ve known about this,” Ian mumbles. “You’ve kept it from both of you.”

Marshall tries to shake Ian off but Ian just holds him tighter. “I love Cash.”

“Is that enough for either of you?” Ian asks. When Marshall doesn’t respond Ian reaches down further, takes his hands, pressing his thumbs against the pulse points in each of Marshall’s wrists. “If this is something I stand no chance against I wish to know now so that I might save myself the strain and embarrassment of trying.”

Marshall is still silent, dropping his head forward and letting Ian kiss his neck. “Is that all you’re risking?” Ian just shakes his head. Marshall sighs. “There is nothing between us but friendship. There never will be.”

Ian doesn’t question it, doesn’t press for more. It’s the truth, quiet and bare and Ian takes it willingly, turning Marshall in order to press their lips together. The wet sounds of their tongues meeting causes a small shudder to work itself through Ian’s back and he tightens his grip, pressing in harder; starts thinking _maybe now_.

But Marshall pulls away, kissing him lightly again and reaching for the lantern—which Ian hands him. “I should go.” Ian hums but doesn’t agree. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

Ian brushes Marshall’s hair back before pulling away and laying back down. “You will.”

“Right,” Marshall mumbles. Ian watches him go. “Good night then.”

 

\--

 

Ian wakes hungrier than he has in a long time and brushes past Marshall, waiting for him on the back porch, petting Sophia with a mumbled excuse. He looks confused, maybe a little upset, but he doesn’t stop Ian as he takes off around the side of the house.

Ian feeds from three separate people before he feels all right, the haze the hunger leaves him in lifting slightly so he can think. It takes another two men before he’s sated, before he can even remember that he has to go back to Marshall.

It’s odd, hasn’t happened like this in a long time, but he doesn’t think on it too much.

When he gets back Marshall is standing in the front yard with Cash, coaxing Sophia into jumping at fireflies with excited encouragement. He enters through the gate, making purposeful sounds so he doesn’t startle them. They both look up and Marshall smiles as Cash frowns, looking away.

“I should be heading in,” Cash mutters, turning a little.

Marshall grabs his upper arm. “Cash.”

Cash spares another glance at Ian as he approaches but keeps his distance, distracting himself with Sophia, picking her up and letting her rub her head against his jaw.

“I should go,” Cash says again, reaching up to squeeze Marshall’s hand before pulling back, heading for the front door.

The house is lit up, most of the downstairs looking like it would—Ian imagines—during the daylight. Marshall sighs, shoulders heavy, before turning back to Ian and holding his arms out for his cat. Ian steps up, placing her gently against his chest and watching as Marshall pushes his face down into her fur. She meows quietly before licking at his eyebrow.

Marshall coughs suddenly, doubles over with it. Sophia leaps from his arms, startles, running for the porch and Ian grabs onto him. “Marshall, are you all right?”

Marshall spits, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand when the fit passes, straightening up and sniffing. His eyes are damp. “Yes, must have been something on Sophia.”

Ian isn’t quite so sure. Marshall appears paler than usual, but he doesn’t want to press. He takes hold of his arm and leads him towards the steps. “Let’s get you inside,” he says.

Cash brings Marshall tea, hesitating at the open bedroom door, even though Marshall is laying down and Ian is sitting beside the window. They’re not even near one another but Cash still appears wary as he helps Marshall get comfortable, propping pillows up behind him, fussing over him like he were Marshall’s mother.

Ian covers a smile with his hand, watching.

“Cash, I’m fine,” Marshall says, pushing his hands away when he goes to pull a blanket up over Marshall’s legs.

“Master Marshall, I have a job to do here.”

Marshall looks up, meeting Cash’s eyes and Cash stills, staring back in a way that makes Ian tense, growl lodging in his throat and he stands, crossing the distance to the bed. He sits down on the side and Cash glances at him.

“Right, goodnight, Master Marshall.” He doesn’t say goodnight to Ian but he also doesn’t say anything rude.

Ian waits until the door closes behind Cash before he leans in, pulls Marshall forward into a kiss.

“Are you certain you’re feeling well?” he asks, lips trailing down Marshall’s jaw towards his throat and sucking. He can feel the nervous excitement in the way Marshall’s hands clench in his shirt and in his hair. Ian avoids his sloppy signature on Marshall’s neck, heading down the other side. He can feel how afraid Marshall is, but he can hear more, anticipation and hope in the way Marshall arches into his mouth, kicking the blanket away from his legs as Ian pushes him back against the pillows.

“I feel wonderful,” Marshall pants, tilting Ian’s head up and crushing their mouths together again.

Ian laughs into the kiss, working his way on top of Marshall. He settles between Marshall's legs, wiggling until their hips are pressed together. Marshall buries his fingers in Ian's hair, tugging lightly, tilting his head to kiss Ian more deeply. Ian can't help the sound he makes, low in his throat, because Marshall is loose and willing beneath him, trusting. Ian lets their tongues slide together, wet and slick.

Marshall breaks the kiss, huffing against Ian's cheek, breath hot. He keeps his eyes closed, even as he tugs at the shoulder and ends of Ian's coat. Ian pushes up onto his elbows, so that he can better look at Marshall.

"Are we—" Ian asks, stopping. He curls a hand over the side of Marshall's neck, covering the scar.

Marshall blinks his eyes open, lips still parted from the kiss. He nods after a moment, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He pulls Ian down to him and Ian goes, kissing him with a new fervor and heat.

"Yes, yes, yes," Marshall whispers, between kisses, when their lips part long enough that he can. He pulls at Ian's coat again, teeth sinking into Ian's lower lip. "Off."

Ian groans, sitting up on his knees, pulling his coat off, tossing it to the floor before fumbling at the buttons on his waistcoat. “Take your shirt off,” Ian tells him. He’s love to do it himself but he’s impatient.

Marshall’s mouth twitches as though he’s going to smile, but stops himself fingers popping open the buttons of his shirt until he’s able to tug it over his head, drop it on the floor.

“Yes,” Ian mumbles, starting in on his own shirt as Marshall’s fingers land on his waist.

It’s just a matter of squirming and pulling, pushing until they’re both naked and pressed against each other. Ian sucks at Marshall’s tongue, intent on keeping his mouth far away from his neck. He won’t allow for a repeat, especially not with the hunger like it is tonight.

He reaches down, lifting Marshall’s legs at the knees and settling them over his hips, pressing forward and holding him open as he grinds in, rubbing their cocks together. Marshall cries out against his lips, both hands fisting in Ian’s hair before he scratches his nails up his back.

“Ian, please,” Marshall whispers, head falling back against the pillows as Ian drops his gaze to watch them slide against each other.

Ian bites his lip, closing his eyes as he grinds down again and again, until Marshall is gasping on every other inhale, hands scrabbling at Ian's shoulders. Then he stops, sitting back on his heels. Marshall makes a frustrated sound, propping himself up on his elbows. He glares at Ian through a fringe of hair, breath still coming harshly.

"What," Marshall exhales, looking confused as to why Ian stopped. He wraps a hand around Ian's bicep, tries to pull him close again.

"Nothing," Ian mumbles. He spits in his hand before wrapping it around Marshall's cock, squeezing hard. Marshall moans, head dropping back. He tries to push into Ian's fist, hips working.

It would be a lie if Ian said he weren't nervous, hesitant about going this far with Marshall. He doesn't want to hurt Marshall ever again, but god, just the thought of being inside of him is enough to make Ian's fangs almost come out. Not to mention the way Marshall looks beneath him, flushed and pupils blown, squirming under Ian's touch. It makes Ian want to mark him somehow, show everyone who Marshall belongs to. Ian bends to kiss him again, though Marshall seems to be too worked up to kiss back, mostly panting into Ian's mouth, hand squeezing on the back of his neck.

Ian closes his eyes, working Marshall in a steady, hard rhythm that has his hips arching up off the bed, his heels digging into Ian’s calves. Marshall’s breathing is rapid, unsteady and Ian groans when he reaches a hand down between them to grasp Ian’s cock and pull.

“Marshall,” Ian breathes, eyes opening and falling on Marshall’s throat. He closes them again instantly. “Marshall, do you—” he twists his wrist making Marshall cry out and haul him down further until he has to let go, both of them pull their hands free and Marshall holds on as Ian ruts against him.

“Marshall,” Ian tries again. “We could—there’s—this isn’t all we could do.” Ian knows he isn’t coherent but he hopes Marshall gets it, even though he knows all of this is a first for him.

“What?” Marshall asks, face pressed against Ian’s neck, muffling his voice before he starts sucking at the side of Ian’s neck, just above his shoulder. It makes Ian ache, his throat throb and remember. Memories of William flash through his mind, their first night together, when William took him. He groans loudly, both at the sensation of Marshall beneath him and to clear his mind. He doesn’t want to think about this now, he wants Marshall.

"I want," Ian says. He works a hand between their bodies, hand squeezing Marshall's cock once before going further down. He rubs a thumb around Marshall's hole, pulling his head back enough to see his face.

He's never seen Marshall go quite as red as he does then, movement stopping for a moment. "Okay," he whispers. He closes his eyes, nodding.

Ian bites his lip to keep in his sigh of relief, still rubbing his finger against Marshall. "Okay," he whispers back, pressing his lips back against Marshall's, lighter than before.

Ian pulls his hand away, spitting in his palm. He rubs his spit-wet finger around and around, sitting back enough that he can wrap his other hand around Marshall's cock. He pushes two fingers in at once, and Marshall arches off the bed, face screwing up, and it's not an entirely pleasant reaction. Ian shushes, hand working Marshall steadily as he scissors the fingers of his other hand. Marshall pants, hand moving from Ian's face to his shoulder to his neck, as if he doesn't know what he wants, just that he needs to touch Ian.

Marshall clenches around his fingers and Ian rubs his thumb over the head of Marshall’s dick, leaning down to run his tongue over it. Marshall arches and cries out, strained and hysterical sounding.

“Shh,” Ian murmurs, mouthing at the head of his cock. He’s not in a position that he can reach more, his back aching already from just this. He licks again before pulling back. “I need you to relax.”

Marshall thrashes his head to the side, gazing out the window instead of at Ian. “Trying,” he gasps. “It hurts.” Ian pushes in harder, stretching his fingers wider and Marshall grabs at his shoulders. “Ian!” he practically shouts.

“Trust me,” Ian whispers, stopping to spit on his hand again, pushing a third finger in before leaning down to lick at Marshall’s lips until they part. Marshall shakes beneath him.

“I’ve never—” he says breathily. “Are you certain this will be pleasurable?”

Ian curls his fingers inside of Marshall, and he clenches his eyes shut, small sounds escaping his throat. Ian presses his cheek to Marshall's, says, "I can make it so."

Marshall's eyes open again to stare at Ian. He's frowning, and Ian has to lean and press his lips to the furrow between his eyebrows. "I hope you do," Marshall says.

Ian pulls his fingers out, spitting one last time into his palm before stroking hard on his own cock. Marshall's eyes flick between it and Ian, teeth worrying at his lower lip. Ian bends down, one forearm beside Marshall's shoulder, other still on his cock.

"Relax," he whispers into Marshall's mouth, kissing him again. Marshall's arms wrap around his shoulders, legs spreading wider. He presses his face to Ian's neck, noticeably trying to loosen his tensed body. Ian rubs a hand over his side, then further down to stroke at his cock.

Then he's guiding the head of his dick to press against Marshall's hole, pushing in just slightly. He can feel the way Marshall tenses, then tries to stop himself from tensing, blowing out a hard breath against Ian's skin. The way he wraps his arms tight around Ian's shoulders makes him turn his face away, lest he gives in to temptation and press his mouth to the skin of Marshall's throat. He begins pushing into Marshall, slowly, so slowly.

Marshall doesn’t breathe, Ian can sense his pulse fluttering faster and faster until he says, “Breathe, Marshall, breathe for me.”

Marshall gasps then, groaning weakly, pressing his forehead against Ian’s shoulder, sweaty and cold at the same time. Ian shudders and pushes his hips forward, jerking when Marshall actually bites him. Marshall’s body gives and the head of Ian’s cock slides in.

The sound Marshall makes is like nothing Ian has ever heard before. His voice breaks and he convulses up with it, gripping tight to Ian as he pushes back from the intrusion.

“No, no,” Ian mumbles quickly, sinking in further even as Marshall cries out, arches again and shoves at his shoulders. “Hold still.”

“Stop,” Marshall gasps breathlessly, voice tinged with tears as his body clamps down on Ian.

Ian shakes his head, palming Marshall’s cheek. “Open for me.” He rubs his thumb against Marshall’s teeth, perfect and normal, _human_ and feels his fangs descend in his mouth. He turns away and presses his hips forward, sliding in entirely.

“There,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “there, just hold still.” He presses a damp, loose kiss to Marshall’s mouth, sliding his lips mostly over his chin. “All right?”

Marshall shakes his head, grasping at Ian's arms and shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Ian kisses over his closed eyes, his nose, his mouth and cheek, stroking Marshall's damp hair back from his forehead. He doesn't move at all, except to stroke Marshall's face, press their foreheads together.

"God, Ian," Marshall whispers, legs tightening around Ian's waist. "It doesn't—"

"Just wait," Ian breathes, kissing the hinge of Marshall's jaw. Marshall nods quickly, heart still beating far too fast.

Ian waits for him to adjust to the feel of being filled, tries not to move his body the way it wants to. Tries not to press his face to Marshall's neck. He kisses Marshall then, carefully, as his fangs are still out. Marshall kisses back, licking over Ian's lower lip, hand to the side of Ian's face. Marshall shifts beneath him, hips moving up slightly, and he lets out a tight sound, clenching around Ian's cock. Ian moans.

He tilts Marshall’s head back, thumb still in his mouth stroking at his teeth in an envious, worshipful way. Marshall bites down and Ian groans again, leaning in and pressing their lips together, noses brushing when he pulls back.

Marshall’s body is looser, but still so tight, hot around him and Ian can’t help it when his hips push up closer though there’s nothing left of Marshall to take. Marshall’s hips press up and then away, he groans, shuddering and digging at Ian’s shoulders.

“I feel so full,” he finally pants, eyes closed, head back against the pillow.

Ian strokes at his face. “Can I move?” he chokes out, Marshall still squeezing him tightly.

Marshall doesn’t open his eyes but he nods slowly. “Not hard.”

“No,” Ian whispers, easing his hips back and pushing forward. Marshall cries out regardless but his thighs stay spread, hot against Ian’s sides and he licks his lips. “Marshall…”

Marshall pulls him close, hands on his shoulders, almost close enough that it's difficult for Ian to move. He manages; reaches between them, fingers wrapping around Marshall's flagging erection. He squeezes and strokes, trying to get to harden in his hand again. Marshall keeps making small, hot, sounds that Ian wants to swallow, so he presses his open mouth to Marshall's.

Ian moves carefully, tiny little thrusts of his hips, but it's still enough to make him shut his eyes, let out half-choked noises. He thrusts harder than he means to, cock half-way out before pushing back in. Marshall arches beneath him, hand fisting painfully tight in Ian's hair.

Ian lets his head be pulled back, baring his throat for Marshall. Marshall seems to realize how tight a grip he has on Ian's hair because he lets go suddenly, mumbling, "Sorry, sorry." His hand cups the back of Ian's head apologetically.

Ian grins at him, watching as Marshall's eyes go to his fangs. "I don't mind," he admits, and thrusts inside Marshall again.

Whatever Marshall was about to say, mouth opening, is lost as he moans loudly, one leg moving up to hook around Ian's calve. Ian strokes slowly, fingers tight around Marshall's cock.

"All right?" Ian asks, voice tight.

Marshall's heel digs into the back of his thigh, and he nods, breathes, "All right."

Ian can feel Marshall’s pulse inside of his body and it makes his hips shudder out of rhythm, harder than he means. “You feel—” he tries, shaking his head, pulling out again, sharpened hearing forcing him to listen to himself sliding increasingly wetly in and out of Marshall’s body.

Marshall’s getting hard again. Ian rubs his thumb under the head, smearing what little precome there is around to ease the slide of his hand again. Marshall shifts under him, feet bracing on the bed to steady himself for Ian’s thrusts, coming faster but still not hard.

Ian isn’t sure how long he can keep this up, Marshall’s body tight and hot and untouched. He drops his head again, brushing his lips against Marshall’s cheek, over his lips. “You’re beautiful,” he finally whispers.

Marshall lets out an odd sound, turning his head away and Ian’s eyes are drawn to his neck again. He closes them, shifts up and his next thrust makes Marshall convulse up against him, making sounds Ian is certain the rest of the house can hear; _Cash_ can hear. He bares his teeth, pushing in again and again, nudging that spot, making Marshall whine beneath him. Ian aims in again, wants everyone to hear; intent on making Marshall scream for him.

Marshall does scream then, fingers scratching down Ian's back. He bows under it, hips snapping forward again and again. Marshall's thighs clamping around Ian’s hips and waist and Ian tightens his fist around Marshall's cock. Marshall spurts over his fist, messy against both their bellies. He falls limp after, eyes closing and just breathing.

Ian stares down at him, eyes raking over his form. And the sight of Marshall makes him thrust harder, rolling his hips. Marshall moans weakly, hands pushing and pulling at Ian's shoulders. Ian turns his head to kiss the back of one his hands, then bends down to kiss across Marshall's chest, close his mouth around one nipple. Marshall's fingers tug at his hair again.

Marshall is so tight and hot around him, Ian can feel that he isn't going to last much longer and it only makes him push into Marshall faster.

"Finish, Ian," Marshall says, one hand going to grip Ian's hip. Ian's jerks forward, cock pulsing. Marshall's presses his open mouth to Ian's jaw, sucks open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

It’s over too fast, is Ian’s first thought, right after he jars his hips in against Marshall’s, grinding and pulsing back and forth, making him moan weakly and thinks _I love you_. It comes unbidden and unwelcome and it makes him explode. Ian feels his face twist up as he comes, pouring himself out inside of Marshall, hips jerking and twitching as he groans.

Ian’s arms shake weakly on either side of him and he finally, finally stills. “Oh,” he whispers, eyes still clenched. “Marshall, I—that—” he cuts himself off, tossing his hair back from his face and reaching down, pulling himself out while Marshall is still lucid and boneless.

Marshall makes a small, pitiful sound, but doesn’t otherwise move until Ian lays out beside him. Ian pants up at the ceiling, leg over Marshall’s and he reaches his sticky hand over to brush through the mess on Marshall’s stomach.

He has to force himself, will his body, to roll over, wrap himself against Marshall’s side. He kisses him carefully, Marshall’s mouth still wet and open, tongue slipping past Ian’s lips to brush against his own. Ian holds his head, moving carefully and pulling back. It’s too dangerous to do this when he can’t even convince his teeth to retract.

Instead he lays back down, head on Marshall’s shoulder, petting his belly, fingers getting sticky as his stomach dries. He nudges Marshall’s chest with his nose, pressing a kiss over his heart. He wants to sink his teeth in, just for a second, just for a taste, to be that much closer. But it’s a ridiculous thought, one Ian pushes away with great difficulty.

Finally Marshall’s hand comes up, rubbing at his shoulder and Ian hates it, hates that he even has to say it but, “I have to go.” He can sense the impending sunrise.

Marshall’s fingers still and he raises his head a little to look. Ian’s certain that if he were to do the same he’d see the sky turning lighter, pink and orange spreading across the horizon. His skin pricks at the thought of it.

What he doesn’t expect is Marshall’s quiet, “Stay.” Ian does lift his head then, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“You know I can’t.”

“What if we were to shutter the windows?” Marshall offers.

Ian shakes his head, “It’s too dangerous.”

Marshall looks disappointed, frowning. He cups the side of Ian's face, thumb stroking his cheek. "I could come down with you."

Ian smiles, but doesn't answer. He can only imagine how he would wake, hungrier than ever, and have Marshall be the first person he sees, smells. Ian shakes his head slightly. Marshall purses his lips, bending his head at an uncomfortable angle press his forehead to Ian's.

"Fine," he whispers. "Go."

Ian closes his eyes, fingers threading through Marshall's hair, inhaling the smell of them, unable to separate their scents. "I am," he says, "I'm going," but he still doesn't move.

Marshall kisses him lightly, carefully, conscious of his fangs still being out. He pushes at Ian's shoulder until, finally, he rolls from the bed. If he doesn't tear himself away from Marshall, he'll end up burning on his bed. He shrugs on his coat, pulling up his pants quickly, and gathers the rest of his garments to his chest.

He glances at Marshall laying on the bed, still uncovered all for him to see. It makes Ian walk back, kneel on the bed to kiss Marshall just once, twice, more, then Marshall's smiling, pushing at his shoulders.

Ian leaves, not looking back over his shoulder, though it's a difficult task.

 

\--

 

Some nights after Ian returns from feeding Marshall likes to sit out back with Sophia and just listen to the sounds of the night. Marshall’s home is far enough away from town that the noises from the nearby woods are undisturbed and one of the more soothing things Ian has heard in his time.

They sit on the grass with Sophia in Marshall’s lap, purring quietly, eyes shut, paw reached up above her head to rest on Ian’s thigh. They both pet her from time to time.

Gunfire isn’t too far off, Marshall starts a little every time a round fires off, but Ian doesn’t. He leans over, pressing his lips to the material covering Marshall’s shoulder. 

“Have you seen many wars?” he asks after a while.

“Your Colonies might not resort to violence,” Ian offers, hand smoothing over Marshall’s low back. They both know, Ian more than Marshall, from William’s dream. It will resort to violence. Just the other day soldiers had marched through their streets, heading north towards the Virginia Colony. Marshall fears fighting, as much is obvious. Ian doesn’t blame him.

Marshall rubs at Sophia’s belly. “How old are you?” Marshall asks, looking through the fringe of his hair at Ian, who reaches over to brush it back.

Sometimes Ian isn’t even certain of his age. He feels like he’s lived innumerable times over in the same body that never changes. It’s frustrating when he forgets. But the times he remembers can be even worse. Ian looks away briefly, considering. He can clearly remember when William turned him, the first few days vivid in his mind, but the next couple of years are hazy, difficult to recall.

“Just under or just over a century,” he says, looking back at Marshall whose eyes are wide, looking awed and a little intimidated. Ian strokes his cheek and Marshall’s face softens, gazing back down at the cat on his legs. “In this form, anyway.”

Marshall is quiet and Ian knows what’s coming next. He’s never spoken about this with anyone before. William knows all of his secrets and he’s never attached himself to anyone else before. It’s startlingly new to him as it is to Marshall.

“How old were you?” Marshall asks.

This Ian knows without thinking. “Nineteen.”

Marshall doesn’t look at him. “Was it awful?”

“No,” Ian says honestly, resting his head against Marshall’s shoulder. “It wasn’t at all my choice really. But it became my choice.”

Marshall nods and coughs suddenly, Sophia startling out of his lap as Marshall gasps for breath, very nearly choking into his own hand. Ian is on his knees in the damp grass beside him instantly, hand on his shoulders.

“Marshall, breathe,” he says, voice shockingly loud in the still night air. Marshall can’t seem to stop however, his entire body shaking, wracking with it until he finally sits back, face damp with sweat and fingers cold as they fold around Ian’s. He draws a knee up and presses his face against it.

When finally he can speak again he mumbles, “My back hurts.”

“I can imagine,” Ian says, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “Here?” he asks and Marshall nods, eyes closing. “We should get you inside.”

“I’m fine,” Marshall tells him, opening his eyes and calling Sophia back over. She trots slowly through the grass, sniffing when she gets close to Marshall and finally stepping close enough that he can run a hand over her head, scratch under her chin. She purrs a little before turning and leaping into Ian’s lap, rolling herself up to fit and settling down, purring louder.

Marshall smiles. “She likes you.”

Ian returns the smile, leaning in and kissing Marshall, lips parting and tongues slipping out. Ian keeps it easy, slow, not interested in causing another coughing fit on Marshall’s part and Marshall seems content with that, his hand on Ian’s thigh and the other in the grass behind them.

The back door opens and Marshall pulls away. They both turn to see Cash standing there. He looks down at Marshall. “There’s a very strange, tall gentleman at the door.”

Marshall’s eyebrows draw together. “At this hour?”

Cash nods once. “He’s asking for Mister Crawford.”

Marshall looks at Ian at the same moment Cash does. “Me?” he asks to himself. The only other person he’s been in contact with here is Gabriel and that’s clearly not who is calling on him. “Who would look for me here?”

Ian scoops Sophia off his lap, she meows quietly and he hands her to Cash before pulling Marshall to his feet. Marshall takes his cat while Ian adjusts his clothing, wiping grass and dirt from them. He steps back inside; Cash waits for Marshall, locking the door behind them as Ian heads for the front of the house.

Marshall isn’t far behind him when he opens the door and his breath stops cold in his chest.

“William,” he whispers.

The taller man turns from his inspection of the air to his left to smile broadly, fangs out, at Ian. “My child,” he says back.

Ian nearly falls in his haste to wrap his arms around William, stumbling out onto the front porch, both of them laughing and grabbing onto one another. Ian buries his face in William’s collarbones and breathes deeply, repeatedly. He smells like _home_ , like everything Ian’s ever found comforting. It’s _William_.

“I’ve missed you,” Ian mumbles, voice muffled by the fine material of William’s jacket.

Hands soothe up over his back, into his hair and pull his head back. William kisses him, pressing their lips together and Ian grips his arms, pushing up onto the balls of his feet to return it with force. It isn’t until he feels a new set of hands on his arms, pulling him back that he even thinks about what he’s doing.

“Ian!” Marshall snaps, yanking him away from William and Cash is there, wrapping an arm around Marshall’s waist. 

Marshall is red-faced and he looks embarrassed, upset and Ian just doesn’t know what to say to explain quickly. This is his _sire_.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marshall demands, reaching out to fist a hand in Ian’s shirt, which Cash immediately pulls back, curling into a fist and covering it with his hand. He holds Marshall back against him and mumbles something too quickly into his ear for Ian to even hear. Ian growls low in his throat and William watches the whole scene, clearly amused.

“Ian, my dear, dear Ian. You’ve caused an uproar,” William says, grinning and self-satisfied. He strokes a finger down Ian’s face and takes hold of his chin. “Be a gentleman and introduce your father.”

Marshall and Cash both look at Ian.

“Father?” Cash asks, disgust tainting his voice.

“My sire,” Ian quickly interrupts. “He—he made me,” Ian finishes after a breath.

William reaches out and rubs the back of Ian’s neck; Ian nearly purrs at the contact while Marshall pushes Cash’s hand off of him. “What is going on? I demand an explanation immediately.”

William lets go of Ian, holding out a hand to Marshall, who just looks at it as though it’s on fire. “William Beckett,” he offers.

The polite, upper class boy in Marshall must take over because he actually shakes it, but pulls away immediately.

“Why don’t we move inside?” Cash offers, hand firm on Marshall’s arm. “I don’t want you out here, it’s damp with fog.”

Ian pretends not to see the arched eyebrow William gives him and just follows Cash and Marshall inside to the parlor.

Cash sends a servant for tea, sitting down beside Marshall when he doesn’t let go of Cash’s forearm. Ian sits in a chair close by while William very nearly reclines in another across from the couch where Marshall and Cash sit.

“I raised you better than this, Ian,” William finally says, causing Ian’s head to snap over in his direction. “You’ve entertained in polite society, be a good host.”

Ian ducks his head, understanding dawning. He clears his throat. “William, this is Alex Marshall, head of this house and his companion Cassius Colligan.” William inclines his head. “Marshall and Cash, respectively,” Ian tells him.

A servant comes, offering them each a cup from the tray she’s carrying. They wait until she’s gone before Ian continues. “What are you doing here, William?”

“Is it not enough that I missed you?” Ian feels Marshall’s eyes on him and he would flush if he weren’t so intent on the situation. “We’ve never been apart this long.”

“You’re being wicked on purpose,” Ian says and William laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs.

“Forgive me, Ian. Masters Marshall and Cash,” he says, grinning over at them. “Ian and I have a history.”

“I can imagine,” Marshall says, eyes never leaving his tea. Cash looks up over Marshall’s head at Ian and Ian doesn’t know what to do or say. “Will you be staying long, Mister Beckett?”

William nods. “I’ve come to be reunited with my progeny.”

Marshall blanches a little, shifting away from Cash as though he doesn’t want to be touched any longer. “Tell me, Mister Beckett—”

“William.”

“William then, how did you come to learn of Ian’s residence here?”

That’s something that hasn’t crossed Ian’s mind. He looks across the room at William who has been staring at him; he smiles. “I stopped at the tavern and one Mister Saporta leant me the information.”

Ian stands abruptly. “You did him no harm.” It’s not a question.

William just raises an eyebrow and Ian turns away, looking sheepish.

Marshall places his cup on the table beside the couch and stands, Cash following. “If you will excuse me, Mister Beckett, I am not feeling well this evening and I should like to retire. You’re welcome to stay with Ian in the cellar until you find something more suited to your needs.”

William stands, removing his hat, ever the gentleman, and takes Marshall’s hand in his own. “My thanks, Master Marshall.”

Marshall pulls his hand back, looking over his shoulder at Ian briefly before heading out of the room. Two sets of footsteps head up the stairs and Ian waits until the room is silent and William is just grinning at him.

“Really, Ian,” William finally says, causing Ian to rub both hands over his eyes. William steps forward, grasping his wrists and pulling them away. He presses a kiss to Ian’s forehead. “Cavorting with the living.”

“ _We’re_ living,” Ian mutters.

William leans down, rubbing their noses together lightly and Ian feels himself melt a little, resistance and anger easing away. “Ever the optimist,” he says, tilting his head and giving Ian another chaste kiss. “I have a feeling you should make right with your human.” Ian opens his mouth to speak but William cuts him off. “I will find my way back and into your hideaway before dawn,” he assures.

At length Ian nods. “Don’t kill anyone,” Ian practically whispers.

William laughs quietly, patting his neck. “Where’s the joy in that?” Ian looks at him but William appears teasing. He steps from Ian and heads for the front door. “I am happy to see you, Ian.”

“As am I,” Ian says, hand on the wall.

William smiles at him, pulling the door open. “See you at dawn.”

 

\--

 

Ian finds Marshall laying on his bed, eyes closed, and hands over his chest. He knows that Marshall's still awake though, can tell by the pattern of his breathing. He climbs onto the bed next to him, laying down and placing his head on Marshall's shoulder. He hates the way Marshall tenses under him.

"What's wrong?" he asks, voice muffled into Marshall's shoulder.

Marshall takes in a sharp breath, head turning to face away from Ian. "How would you feel if you ever saw Cash and I kissing?"

Ian tenses so hard and so fast that it makes his muscles ache, tension pulling his body tight. He wraps his arms tighter across Marshall's chest, as if Cash were there in the room. He growls, "I'd be hard pressed not to kill him where he stood."

Marshall turns his head, cheek to the top of Ian's head. He presses a kiss there, and Ian gets it. He goes limp as soon as he'd tensed up. "He's my _sire_. I don't know how to explain to you, Marshall," he says.

"Try," Marshall says, simply. Ian winces a little.

He tilts his head back and up so that he can see Marshall, but Marshall still isn't looking at him, gaze trained on the ceiling now. "He's..." Ian begins, trailing off. Ian imagines that even if he had been born with some special gift with words, he'd still have a difficult time finding the right ones to explain away his connection to William. "He's like lover and family both, but neither." Ian makes a frustrated sound in his throat. "He's _William_ and he made me." Ian closes his eyes, internally cursing at himself because that did nothing to answer Marshall's questions, he's sure.

Marshall turns in his arms, finally facing him again. Ian can't tell what he's thinking, not from his face. "Do you need him?" Marshall asks.

"Yes," Ian says. "He's part of who I am." Ian raises his eyebrows. "Do you need Cash?"

Marshall flushes, glancing away. "Yes, you know that."

Ian presses forward a little, throwing a leg over Marshall's hip, arm going to drape across his waist. "Then it seems we've come to an impasse, my dear Marshall."

Marshall's mouth twitches, and he doesn't pull away when Ian presses their lips together. He even kisses back, though slow and distractedly. Ian's not surprised when he breaks the kiss, expression determined.

"How did he... make you what you are?" Marshall asks. He eyes flick back and forth between Ian's, seemingly gauging his reaction to the question.

"I don't know," Ian says, honestly. Those few days after are hazy in his memory, and the day of his changing, the day William actually bit him, is almost a blank in his mind. "I never really remembered how it happened."

Marshall looks slightly disappointed, body going limp. "Oh."

Ian eases forward, close enough that his eyes nearly cross, trying to keep his gaze locked on Marshall's. "Any other questions, Master Marshall?"

Marshall purses his lips, tilting his head away at the right moment, just slightly, enough that Ian can't kiss him. "No, Mister Crawford, and I'll thank you not to mock me."

Ian grins, says, "I would never dream of doing so," and presses forward to kiss Marshall square on the mouth, hand to his jaw. Marshall stubbornly doesn't kiss back for the first few moments, mouth slack and unmoving beneath Ian's, but Ian works at it, teeth skimming and tongue licking over his bottom lip. With a small shuddering breath, Marshall kisses back, arms wrapping tighter around Ian and pulling him closer.

 

\--

 

Ian wakes up to William wrapped completely around him, and he's entirely happy for the first time since he's arrived in the Colonies. He turns over in William's arms, smiling as William murmurs something unintelligible, waking up as Ian moves.

"Hello," Ian whispers, when William finally cracks an eye open. William smiles back slowly, mouth curving sweetly. Ian has to kiss that smile, wiggle as close as possible to William, and then try to fit even closer. William just hums into the kiss, hand stroking over the back of his neck.

William breaks the kiss, and Ian presses his face to his chest, mouth against William's collarbone. "How shall you entertain me today? You've been here for some time, you should know where to find the more interesting people."

Ian laughs into William's skin, shaking his head a little. "Not really. I've been preoccupied with the interesting people here in this house."

William makes a small noise, acknowledging Ian words. His fingers card through Ian's hair, and he has to resist the urge to purr under the attention. "I can't say I'm not curious as to what exactly your fascination with this Marshall boy is."

Ian tenses. "And I can't say I'm exactly sure of it either."

William tugs playfully at his hair, fingers tangled in it. "Interesting," he murmurs.

Ian tilts his head back to look William in the eye. "You mustn’t harm him," he says. "Nor Cash, nor Gabriel."

William arches an eyebrow. "Gabriel?"

"The tavern owner. Saporta."

William just looks at him long enough that Ian feels the need to avoid his gaze, feel sheepish for speaking out. But then he's sighing, pressing his lips to Ian's forehead. "If you insist," he says.

Ian relaxes again, hand unclenching from William's coat, where he hadn't even realized he was doing so. He doesn't mumble 'thank you', but it's probably all over his expression anyway.

"But you will still be accompanying me out," William says, voice mock-serious. "You shall still show me around this place."

"Of course," Ian says, smiling.

 

\--

 

Later, they end up at the tavern. Ian wonders if he should be more surprised than he is.

After they'd both fed for the evening, carefully not killing anyone, to Ian's relief, they'd almost passed by the brewhouse. William had stopped, said vaguely, "This place was intriguing, from what I saw of it the night before. Come, Ian, tell me of its mysteries."

Ian, in turn, had looked at him strangely, but agreed. He'd only hoped Gabriel wouldn't be alarmed, feel threatened at two of Ian's kind in his tavern at once. He was wrong.

As soon as they walk through the door, Gabriel grins at them brightly. "Mister Beckett, Mister Crawford!" he exclaims, causing a couple of the other patrons to look up curiously. "Good to see you both."

Ian looks at William strangely again, slowly taking a seat next to him at the bar. "Gabriel," he greets, nodding at him.

William removes his hat, twirling it between his fingers. "Mister Saporta," he nods, smiling.

Gabriel is still grinning as he sets a glass down in front of each of them. "Please, call me Gabriel."

"Then you must address me as William," William says, head tilting slightly.

Ian tries not to gape, but he's not sure how successful a venture it is. He's guessing not very much so when William kicks at his ankle with the tip of one pointy boot. Ian shakes his head, frowning into his drink.

"You two are acquainted?" he asks, sipping from the cup.

Gabriel glances at him, as if he'd forgotten Ian were there. "We talked briefly the evening before, when William here inquired after your whereabouts."

"Right," Ian says, nodding again. And so the night goes, Gabriel talking to William when he's not serving others, both of them mostly ignoring Ian. Ian just nurses his drink, certainly not pouting, but doing something remarkably similar.

He even corners Gabriel once, when he excuses himself to retrieve something from the storage room. Gabriel starts back, having not seen or heard Ian come up.

Ian presses a hand to his chest, says, "You are aware that William is... like me?"

Gabriel's eyebrows rise. "I could guess."

Ian slumps a little at that. "Oh," he says. "Right."

He's beyond relieved when they finally wrap things up, bid each other goodnight. Ian doesn't try to hide his staring.

"Yes, Ian?" William asks, one eyebrow cocked, once they are more than a third of the way back to Marshall's home.

"Really, William," Ian says, straightening, voice haughty. "Cavorting with the living?"

William's eyes narrow. "Mind yourself, Ian."

Ian purses his lips, watching the road in front of them. He steps closer to William, arm around his waist. William drops an arm across Ian's shoulders, after a moment where he huffs, rolling his eyes towards the night sky. "I'll try," Ian says.

 

\--

 

Marshall is out in the back yard when Ian vaults over the stone fence, startling him and Cash both. Sophia hisses and sprints for the porch. Ian grins as he stands, brushing his jacket off, straightening his clothes before he approaches Marshall.

Marshall hits his arm. “You scared me half to death,” he chastises.

Cash rolls his eyes heavily when Ian wraps both arms around Marshall and pulls him in, whispering, “I’m sorry,” before pressing their lips together.

“Right, I’ll just be heading in,” Cash says loudly, turning and trudging through the grass.

Marshall squirms like he wants to pull away but Ian holds tighter, teasing Marshall’s tongue with his own until it slides into his mouth. Ian moans lightly, finger trailing up Marshall’s back to his neck. He covers the scar there and Marshall turns his head, letting Ian kiss down the other side. 

“I find it a wonder you still trust me,” he murmurs.

Marshall shudders. “Should I not?” He’s breathless and clings a little when Ian pushes forward with his hips.

Ian just makes a sound, nudging Marshall’s head up so he can suck at the flesh under his chin. “You’re a marvel.”

Marshall laughs a little. “Mister Crawford, I believe we’re outside.”

Ian snorts against his skin, moving back to his mouth, reclaiming and pushing in with his tongue. “Who will see?”

“Cash, your friend William. _Sophia_ ,” he emphasizes.

Ian pulls back with a sigh, reaching up to brush Marshall’s hair back. “I wouldn’t want to compromise your cat.”

Marshall smiles slowly. “Spoken like a true gentleman.”

Ian sits down in the grass, bringing Marshall to rest beside him but try as he might, Ian just can’t seem to remain a gentleman. He kisses Marshall again and again before he pushes back on his shoulders and Marshall lays out beneath him. Ian groans a little, straddling his hips and dipping down to kiss him hard; his curls brushing Marshall’s face.

It isn’t long before they’re rubbing up against each other, slow and easy, building a careful rhythm as they rock back and forth in the grass.

Ian breaks away, panting against Marshall’s cheek, propping himself up on his forearms, grinding down. Marshall arches, hands on his hips, pushing up into the hard pressure of Ian’s cock against his own.

“You corrupt me, Mister Crawford,” Marshall whispers, voice hot and damp against Ian’s cheek.

Ian turns his head, capturing Marshall’s lips with his own. “It’s my greatest pleasure.”

Marshall closes his eyes, head back as they rub faster, pressing harder against one another, small gasps and choked-off noises coming from his throat as Ian brings him to the edge and pushes him over.

Marshall convulses up as he comes, digging his fingers into Ian’s thin hips, crying out loudly. Ian holds his breath, keeping back his sounds to hear Marshall’s as he thrusts into Marshall’s hips and follows suit, liquid heat warming the front of his breeches.

They still slowly, rubbing against one another and shaking with aftershocks, forcing the very last of their pleasure from one another. Ian kisses him gently, stroking his hair back from his sweat-slick cheek. They stare at one another for a brief moment before Marshall smiles up at him, genuine and soft.

He reaches up to brush his thumb against Ian’s jaw before kissing it. “It’s nearly ironic,” he says, “that before you came here I think I was the less alive of the two of us.”

Before Ian can respond there is an amused chuckle from behind them. Both of them look—Marshall upside down—to find William standing there. Ian curses, stumbling to his feet, pulling Marshall up with him.

Marshall’s face is bright red even in the darkness. Ian pushes him back, preserving the modesty his damp breeches don’t.

“How long have you been standing there?” Ian demands.

William smiles at him, tilting his head to the side as he folds his arms against his chest. “Take heart, Ian. I missed all but the end of your very public showing.”

Marshall presses his forehead to Ian’s shoulder, mumbling about his embarrassment. Ian rubs his arm. “What do you need, William?”

“I need a great many of things, Ian,” William tells him. “For instance, I need your company tonight. I’m meeting Gabriel at his tavern.”

Marshall looks up at this, his hand possessive on Ian’s hip. “Again?” William bares his teeth a little when he smiles.

“What are you up to?” Ian asks.

“Your secrets are far more interesting than my own,” William says, voice smooth and sure. “Will you come or not?”

Ian looks back at Marshall who merely mumbles, “I wish to change first.”

 

\--

 

It isn’t until several evenings later that William doesn’t go to the tavern and he and Marshall do that he begins to understand what is happening. The smell of William assaults his senses the moment he opens the door. It’s as though he’s in the room, right beside Ian, but he’s clearly not. There’s hardly a soul in the place.

Ian heads for the bar, where the scent is coming from, Marshall trailing behind him, asking after him what’s going on.

Ian doesn’t stop until he’s got Gabriel by the collar of his shirt in the back hallway, pressed to the wall, reeking of William. “What has he done to you?” Ian demands.

Beside him Marshall looks terrified. Gabriel still smells distinctly human, he’s warm to the touch and Ian can smell his fear. But he looks at a loss as well, as though he doesn’t know himself.

Ian reaches up, pushing his head to the side and then the other, eyes widening when he sees a cut, bruise forming around it. It doesn’t look like fang marks, but it’s definitely from William. 

Ian looks up, confused. “He’s marked you.”

“What?” Marshall asks before he lets out a decidedly feminine sound, jumping when William’s voice sounds from just behind him. Ian reaches out instinctively, pulling him away.

“You’re digging into my business Ian,” William warns.

Gabriel pushes Ian away from him but avoids William’s gaze. William seems undeterred. 

“How does this leave me unconcerned?” Ian asks. “What are you doing to him?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel interrupts. William smiles, Ian can see it from the corner of his eye. He reaches out and brushes Gabriel’s neck with his fingers.

“You’ve marked him,” Ian insists.

William reaches out suddenly, pulling Ian with him out the back door, stopping Marshall from following when he says, “I need a word with my _son_.”

Ian shrugs William off of him, suddenly deflated. “You’re not going to take him are you?” William has made no others since he changed Ian; his pride aches as much as his heart.

“Ian, my dear. No,” William assures, voice sincere. “Come here,” he says and Ian immediately pushes forward into his arms. William strokes his hair, the back of his neck, rocking him gently. “I could never want another while I have you.” Ian hears the catch, the loophole there, because William knows as well as Ian does that Marshall is pulling them apart.

“You wouldn’t come all this way just to leave me,” Ian says, pulling back and looking up to meet William’s eyes.

William takes a curl and wraps his finger in it. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Ian sighs audibly, relaxing a little. “Why did you mark him? _How_ did you?”

“To keep others like ourselves away from him. I want him alive and not fed upon.” William shakes his hair back, twisting the lock of Ian’s hair further before pulling his hand free.

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Ian confesses, knowing that the only reason he doesn’t is due to William keeping it from him. He’d feel more upset at the fact if he didn’t know for certain that William never withheld from him to be cruel.

William tilts his head, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You would do well to avoid bonding with the human.”

Ian snorts, knocking William’s hand away. “You clearly have no speaking room.”

“It’s different,” William says.

“How is that?”

“You’ve already marked him.”

Ian stills, feels his heart flutter weakly in his chest. “What?”

“Come now, Ian. Did you think his neck was out of sight to me? You left a nasty impression there.” William grins, but his eyes are a little hard, measuring Ian, judging.

Ian drops his gaze. “That was an accident.”

“Do you feed from him?” William asks, bluntly.

“No,” Ian says, head snapping back up. “I wouldn’t put him at risk like that.”

Silence falls between them, William rocking back and forth a little, humming every short while to fill the space as they stare one another down. Finally William smiles, cupping Ian’s neck in both hands, drawing him forward until they kiss lightly.

“I’ll not lose you to this.”

Ian’s throat tightens a little and he shakes his head. “You will never lose me.”

William’s sigh is light, his look knowing in the way that Ian knows means there’s much more than what William is ready to share. “I fear I will,” William practically whispers.

“You _won’t_ ,” Ian says, voice firm as he squeezes William’s hand in his own.

 

\--

 

It has become a tradition of sorts for Ian and Marshall to sit outside during the nights, in the yard, doing nothing other than talking, watching the sky, but only on nights that William doesn't ask Ian out with him. Tonight is one of those nights that William has gone to the tavern, something which has become increasingly common. It makes a sour taste appear in Ian's mouth when he thinks of it for too long.

Marshall tilts his head onto Ian's shoulder, and Ian drops an arm around his waist. He can't help the way he tucks his hand under Marshall's shirt to feel bare skin, pulling it from his pants. Can't help the way he slides it up, feeling over the smooth expanse of his back.

Ian tenses, fingers stopping. "Marshall," he says.

"Hmm?" Marshall doesn't look, eyes trained on Sophia in his lap.

"What is this?" Ian asks, even as he kneels up on the porch to take his own look. He pulls up Marshall's shirt, ignoring the way he squawks at Ian, trying to pull it back down. Sophia hisses, darting away, unhappy at the disruption. "Marshall."

Marshall's back is covered in many angry little red spots. Ian runs his fingers over them, frowning hard. Marshall finally manages to jerk away from him then, face red. He yanks his shirt back down.

"It's nothing," he says, and doesn't look at Ian. He's glaring at the grass.

"Is it a rash?" Ian asks.

Marshall huffs, pulling his knees to his chest. "I'm sure it'll pass. Where's Mister Beckett this night?"

Ian settles back down next to him. He can feel that he's still frowning, but he lets Marshall get away with the abrupt change of subject. "He's at the tavern again. Visiting Gabriel, I suppose."

"Oh," Marshall says. He picks up Sophia again, though she seems tense, ready to jump away at the slightest sign of excitement. "What is his relationship with Gabriel?"

"I'm not sure," Ian says, darkly. He tries not to dwell on thoughts of what William and Gabriel might be getting up to. It's a difficult task though, and he can't say he's entirely successful at it. He closes his eyes, scooting across the ground and pulling Marshall close again. "Let's not talk about them."

Marshall turns his head, kissing the top of Ian's. He seems to inhale, rubbing his cheek across the top of Ian's curls. "All right," he agrees.

 

\--

 

Marshall is right. The rash does go away. But then he's collapsing during the day about two weeks later. Ian should know that there is something wrong, when he wakes up and the whole house is _still_ , and no one is outside, but he's in too much of a hurry to be out feeding. The sooner he can feed, the sooner he can more safely be with Marshall.

When he comes back, after he's bounded up the steps, Cash stops him before he can enter Marshall's room. Ian nearly growls, but Cash's expression is tight, sad, and not filled with loathing or disgust, or any of the other looks he usually aims at Ian.

"What is it?" Ian asks.

"Marshall, he..." Cash says, shaking his head. "He collapsed earlier, outside."

"What?" Ian says, dumbly, tensing to push past Cash and inside of the room.

"So I called on his doctor and he was able to see Marshall today," Cash says. "He said that Marshall had had Scarlet fever, but that it has already progressed to rheumatic fever."

Ian feels faint, feels sick. He feels like he's not actually hearing Cash correctly. William comes up the stairs just then, amazingly, as if he'd known that Ian was distressed somehow. And maybe he did.

William doesn't say anything, just walks over, arm wrapping around Ian's waist and pulling him closer. He kisses the side of Ian's head, and the way that Cash doesn't even work up the energy to cast so much as a scornful look at them, is how Ian knows that he's truly upset.

"Is it fatal?" Ian asks.

Cash's mouth twists, and he says, "It can be."

Ian nods, and nods. Cash turns away then, disappearing back into the room, pulling the door shut after himself. Ian turns into William, burying his face in William's shoulder. William makes soothing noises, hands petting over Ian's hair. Ian feels shaky, and William just holds him tighter.

"Your boy is sick?" William asks gently, mouth close to Ian's ear.

"Yes." Ian's hands clutch at the fabric covering William's shoulder.

William rubs a hand down Ian's back, over and over, until he doesn't feel quite as bad. Ian just holds on, thoughts jumping back and forth between _Marshall_ and _sick_.

"But you can't say you hadn't foresaw something of this nature," William murmurs.

Ian tenses, barely resisting the urge to jerk away from William. He pulls back enough to look him in the eye. "I'm not the one with the prophetic dreams."

"Don't let these feelings take away your reason." He cups the side of Ian's face, thumb brushing over his cheek. "Come now, Ian. He's mortal."

"So are we," Ian says, voice low and tight.

William just fixes him with a look, fingers pulling on a curl. "But not in the same way."

"What are you suggesting, William?"

William's expression turns very serious. His hands go to either side of Ian's face, and he makes sure Ian is looking him in the eye when says, "That you spare a thought before making any rash decisions."

Ian shakes his head, closing his eyes, but William doesn't let him go. "You're not making _sense_."

William bends his head to Ian's, foreheads touching. He looks decidedly grim, and Ian just feels sick, aching. "I dreamt of this," he whispers.

"Of what?" Ian asks quietly, though he thinks he knows.

"That your boy would get sick," William says. "That it would distress you greatly. I came in the hopes of sparing you the pain, but I was too late."

Ian lets the words echo inside his, lets himself mull over William's choice of words. He pulls away from William again, and this time, William lets him go. He's quiet as Ian slips inside Marshall's room.

Cash is sitting on the window sill, but Ian hardly spares him a glance before he's climbing carefully on the bed next to Marshall. Marshall is still, laying on his side. His cheeks are flushed, breathing rather quickly for just resting on a bed, and he's in his bedclothes, but that's all that Ian can tell of his sickness. Marshall's eyes open when he moves closer, placing himself close to Marshall's front.

Marshall smiles. "Ian."

"What did the doctor say?" Ian asks.

Marshall blinks at him. "He diagnosed me."

"And?" Ian prompts. He cups the side of Marshall's face, cool fingers against heated skin.

Marshall seems to know what exactly Ian is trying to ask because he says, slowly, "I just have to wait it out. Wait out the sickness, and see if it takes me or not."

Ian has a too-tight feeling in his chest, throat raw and aching as if he were the one with the fever. He presses his forehead to Marshall's, nudging their noses together. He says, "I'll wait it out with you."

 

\--

 

Marshall’s condition doesn’t improve but it doesn’t worsen either. His fever is high during the day, Cash tells him, and he shakes with it at night. Ian puts off hunting until the end of the evening, before he absolutely has to be back in the cellar. He spends his nights in bed with Marshall, holding him, stroking back his sweat-soaked hair and telling him stories. Half of the time he doesn’t think Marshall even hears him but he does it anyway.

His stomach aches constantly. Sometimes Marshall can barely push himself away from Ian fast enough to vomit over the side of the bed.

Cash is always there, beside the bed when Ian is present and, presumably, where Ian lies when he’s not.

Ian can’t bring himself to be jealous or wary of Cash; he doesn’t want Marshall left alone.

One night William makes Ian feed before he spends time with Marshall. “I can hear his pulse,” William says, pulling Ian away from the stairs to the second floor. “You will not control yourself as you should.”

Ian would protest but he knows William is right. If he lost control when Marshall was excited beneath him, the feel of his stress-related heart rate would surely drive him over the edge.

By the time they return home, though, Ian can smell panic. Not just Marshall’s but Cash’s as well. Ian breaks away from William, taking the stairs two at a time to get back to him; William follows more slowly.

Ian watches as relief floods Marshall’s face when Ian steps into the room. His eye is completely bloodshot. Ian kneels down on the bed, taking Marshall’s cheek in hand.

“What happened?” he asks.

Cash shakes his head while Marshall just turns his face into Ian’s arm, Ian squirms down beside him, still stroking his thumb over Marshall’s cheek.

“I’m so hot,” Marshall whispers. And he is, he’s covered in sweat and his nightshirt is balled up at the foot of the bed.

Ian ducks his head, pressing a kiss to Marshall’s forehead. “You’ll be all right,” Ian tells him, quite sure that he doesn’t even believe himself. A quick brush of Ian’s hand down Marshall’s side tells him the rash has returned. “Let me get you something cold for your back.”

“No,” Marshall nearly whines, holding to Ian’s arm. “Stay, please.”

Ian looks up at Cash who looks away, rolling his lips inward in hesitation, biting back a protest of his own, but he stands and heads for the door.

Ian just cradles Marshall’s sweaty face against his neck and waits.

 

\--

 

Ian wakes with a jolt, hissing at the person touching him, arms tightening around Marshall who moans weakly in his sleep. A hand clamps down over his mouth and William chastises, “You’ll wake him. Come now, you fell asleep. It’s nearly sunup.”

A glance at the window tells him that William is right, the sky is mostly orange now. He carefully pries himself apart from Marshall, settles him back down without waking him and follows William out of the room.

William lays him down, places an arm across his stomach and sings quietly in his ear, when they return to the cellar. But Ian feels too tired to sleep, worried and tense. William nudges his cheek with his nose, strokes gently at Ian’s hip.

“He’s going to die,” Ian says and William falls silent. When the seconds fall to minutes Ian continues. “You know that. You _have_ known it, haven’t you?”

William sighs and Ian shoves him away. William latches right back on, holding Ian down at the shoulders, leaning up over him. “I asked you to think about this before you make a foolish decision.”

Ian bares his teeth and shoves at William again; but William’s strength is far superior to his own and he doesn’t budge at all. “It would be foolish to let him go.”

“You’re not thinking properly,” William tells him, pressing down hard, digging his fingers into Ian’s shoulders until it hurts, until Ian is wincing. “You don’t remember how angry you were when you realized what I’d done to you. You hated me, you hated yourself and what you were, what you _are_. You didn’t have to deal with that, it was my burden alone after I’d taken you.” Ian stills, listening. “Now you want to do it to him? Take his life and give him this? You need to consider if it’s really worth it. If that’s what he’d really want.”

Ian thrashes anew. “I forgave you,” he spits, knocking William off of him and attempting to stand. William growls and throws him back down. “Tell me how.”

“I won’t,” William spits. “Better he should die loving you than live to hate you for what you do to him.”

Ian stills again, chest pressed against the dirt floor of the cellar, gazing off into the darkness. “Is that what you think?” Ian asks quietly; William doesn’t answer. “I hold no resentment against you, William.”

William sighs, easing up and sitting back, allowing Ian to turn around and face him. “It’s not that I think you do, it’s that I think you should.”

Ian’s teeth dig into his lip and he hisses at the pain, feels and tastes his own blood. He wipes it away with his hand and shakes his head, closing his eyes. “How is it, after all this time, you still know so little of what you should about me?”

“Ian—”

Ian pushes William away from him and lays back down. “I’m going to sleep.”

William doesn’t try to speak again and he doesn’t touch Ian when he lays down beside him.

Ian dreams, has nightmares, for the first time in more years than he can remember. He wakes throughout the day, eyes burning and head heavy, aching, his breath caught in his chest. He dreams of burning alive, losing Marshall, losing William. He would stay awake to avoid the terrors behind his closed eyelids if the alternative of physical pain and being forced to process his thoughts didn’t hurt just that much more.

 

\--

 

Marshall doesn't seem to recover and Ian himself is sick with worry. William starts spending even more time with Gabriel at the tavern, and that's just another thing Ian tries not to think about too much. Instead, he lays with Marshall, tries not to worry about Cash, which he'd thought he'd never have to do, but there it is. The boy's sickly looking, dark circles under his eyes, trembling hands, and he'll do Marshall no good if he were to collapse out of exhaustion or some such thing.

But Ian knows better than to bring it up. Cash would sooner collapse himself than stop taking care of Marshall.

Ian doesn't bring up changing Marshall to William again, but it never leaves his mind. Particularly whenever Marshall is paler than usual, is more violently sick.

And then there's one day that's better than others. Marshall can manage to sit up, can stand up. Ian can't stop the slight relief he feels at that. Maybe William was wrong. Maybe Marshall will recover.

"Ian," Marshall says. He'd been staring at his hands in his lap, and Ian had just sat next to him, stroking the back of his neck, his hair. "I want to go outside."

Ian stops. "I don't know if that would a good idea at the moment," he finally says.

Marshall looks at him, eyes big, watery. "I want to."

"You're supposed to get as much rest as possible," Cash says. He's sitting at the foot of the bed.

Marshall shakes his head. "I haven't seen outside in weeks. What if I'm never able to again?"

"Don't speak like that," Cash hisses, only a second before Ian himself can get the same words out.

Marshall pulls away the bedcovers, puts his legs over the side of the bed, and Ian barely restrains himself from pushing him back down to his pillows.

"Marshall."

Marshall begins putting on a shirt, ignoring both of their protestations. "I'm going," he says, firmly. He's breathing a bit faster already, face flushed. "You can come, or you can stay."

Ian curses, but gets up as well, holding his arm when Marshall makes his way carefully down the stairs, towards the yard. Cash follows along too, expression both annoyed and dreadfully worried.

Marshall is breathing hard when they get to the yard, dropping down quickly to sit in the grass. Ian frowns, dropping down beside to him. Marshall lays his head on Ian's shoulder, and Ian pulls him close like he always does, arms around his waist. Cash stays on the porch, standing and leaning against the railing.

Marshall still hasn't quite caught his breath when he whispers, "I love you."

Ian tenses. "Don't, Marshall."

Marshall nods, his pulse picking up. "It's true though."

"I know," Ian says, turning his head to rest on top of Marshall's. Marshall's heartbeat is too fast, Ian can hear it, feel it, and it's a good thing he's already fed.

"My chest hurts," Marshall says.

Ian pulls away slightly, putting his hand to the side of Marshall's neck. His pulse flutters against Ian's palm, and Ian is just opening his mouth to call for Cash when Marshall goes limp. He loses consciousness, and Ian lays him down gently against the grass as Cash rushes over, dropping to his knees beside them.

Ian can hear his heart struggling inside his chest, so it's almost unnecessary for Cash to bend his head to Marshall's chest, open his mouth, say, "He's not breathing properly."

Ian ignores the panic he can feel building in himself, as if he is absorbing some of it from Cash, and shoots to his feet. He runs for the tavern.

 

\--

 

William nor Gabriel are in the main room of the tavern, the few customers there left to entertain themselves. He finds them in the back room, against a wall, heads bent close together. Gabriel springs back when he notices Ian, though William just looks amused.

"I need your help," Ian says, and William's expression closes off.

William turns to Gabriel, says, "I shall see you tomorrow."

Gabriel looks confused, glancing back and forth between them, but he nods. "I should get back to work, then." As he passes Ian, he pauses, hand squeezing Ian's shoulder. "Give Master Marshall my best wishes," he says, then he's gone. Ian bites the inside of his cheek.

William looks at him. "I've given you my answer, Ian."

"And I've thought it over," Ian says. "Now I need you to come with me and _tell me how to change Marshall_."

William's mouth tightens. He doesn't move away from the wall. He says nothing.

"He's dying, damn you," Ian spits. "His heart is giving out as we speak."

William's expression softens, and he shakes his head. "Ian..."

Ian rushes forward, fisting his hands in the material of William's shirt. William doesn't push him away, just wraps his fingers around Ian's wrists. "Please, William," he whispers. "I need him."

William looks pained, closing his eyes as he presses his lips to Ian's forehead, but, "Fine," he whispers back.

 

\--

 

Cash looks up when William enters the room, Ian stepping out from behind him to look at Cash, raise his eyebrows in question.

“He woke up,” Cash says. He’s got one hand in Marshall’s, their fingers laced. “He’s asleep now.”

Ian knows it’s not just because he’s so attuned to Marshall, so connected to him that he can hear the rasp of his breath, smell the scent of death clinging to the room. He’s sure even Cash can sense it, what’s going on. Ian bites his lip and follows William to the bed.

“Move,” William says to Cash.

“Like hell I will,” Cash growls back and William bares his teeth in a snarl.

“Move or I will move you myself.”

Ian places a hand on William’s shoulder and is immediately shoved off. William is angry with him, it’s obvious. Cash arches an eyebrow but doesn’t move.

“Please, Cash,” Ian mumbles. “William is going to help him.”

“No, _you’re_ going to do this,” William corrects, turning to look at him. “I won’t be responsible for him.”

Cash sits up, face confused and heart beginning to pick up, Ian can feel that too but he doesn’t have the strength to wonder on it right now when Marshall is fading away right before his eyes. “What are you going to do to him?” Cash asks.

In response, William pushes Ian down at the head of the bed and moves around to the other side, grabbing Cash suddenly and yanking him to his feet.

“No!” Cash shouts, thrashing in William’s grip; but his feet barely touch the floor. “Don’t! Ian, don’t do this to him!”

Ian looks up, his hand resting gently on Marshall’s throat. His eyes sting a little but he blinks the feeling away, looking up at William.

“You drain him,” William says, voice thick and he jerks when Cash does, holding his arms immobile behind his head. “’til his heart nearly stops.” Ian nods, licking his lips nervously. “Ask him first,” William says, causing Ian to look back up at him. “Ask him or it might not work. If he doesn’t take to it, if he doesn’t want it, he’ll die anyway.”

Ian’s throat goes dry. It doesn’t escape him, the implication that William hadn’t forced this entirely upon Ian himself. The things he’s said to William. He drops his gaze again, shaking Marshall slightly. He murmurs his name, brushing his thumb against Marshall’s dry, cracked lips. “Wake for me,” Ian tells him, leaning close to whisper it in his ear. Marshall shifts, his face tensing, but he doesn’t say a word. “Marshall, please, listen to me. We haven’t time.”

But Marshall doesn’t move at all, doesn’t blink awake or touch him, grant him any sort of permission.

Ian looks back at William, at Cash hanging in his arms, face pleading. “What do I do?”

Cash twists again and William growls, “Be still,” before turning to Ian again. “Drink from him, then let him drink from you.” Ian nods, hands shaking as they go to Marshall’s throat. “Be warned, Ian,” William says quietly, “he may not survive it.”

Ian doesn’t have the heart to say anything. His chest aches and he can’t even make himself consider what the outcome of this will be if not exactly what he wants; if Marshall isn’t awake and in his arms again before the dawn.

He closes his eyes and places a kiss at Marshall’s pulse, whispers, “I love you,” before opening his mouth and sinking them into Marshall’s throat.

 

\--

 

“Marshall,” Ian says, watching him look around in the dark, eyes wide and bright, the lights from the house reflecting in them. He turns when Ian calls, blinking hard, rubbing at his face. All light hurts at first, Ian remembers that much.

He steps forward, reaching out carefully to take Marshall’s arm. “All right?” he asks.

Marshall nods after a moment, opening his mouth to stretch his jaw again. Ian leans in, pressing his nose to Marshall’s cheek. “I’m hungry,” Marshall says, swallowing and looking away nervously.

Ian pulls back, he can feel William watching from the porch, expression unreadable, arms folded against his chest. Ian doesn’t look, he reaches up and turns Marshall’s face back to his. “I’ll bring you someone.”

Marshall meets his gaze, eyes wide and worried. He swallows a few times before he nods.

“Stay with William.”

“Where’s Cash?”

“In his room. You shouldn’t see him for a while.” Marshall’s face falls. “It’s not safe yet. You would confuse it.” Marshall looks away, stretching his jaw again. “Just stay with William,” Ian says, squeezing his arm.

“All right,” Marshall says, squeezing back when Ian grasps his fingers. He offers a small smile before turning from Marshall and heading for the gate.

 

\--

 

William leaves Marshall’s home almost immediately after Ian turns him. Cash spends a day covering the windows in Marshall’s bedroom so he doesn’t have to move down to the cellar.

Marshall spends the first few days down there anyway until Ian convinces him that it’d be better for him to sleep in his room, maintain himself as he did before, as much as possible. Marshall is slightly mindless at first, listening to everything Ian says and feeding when Ian brings people home for him.

Ian can’t remember how he was raised but he doesn’t want Marshall out, not just yet. So he feeds him, takes complete care to keep Cash away for a while and does everything he can to help Marshall’s old personality come back out.

He knows that he’s done right when Marshall sits down at the piano one evening and plays. Ian gets Cash soon after. Cash appears wary and unsure but Marshall smiles with relief and pulls Cash to him. Ian keeps an eye on Marshall’s fangs but they don’t go near Cash’s neck. He strokes the back of his head and tells him, “Take heart, my friend. I’m fine.”

Cash’s fingers clench in Marshall’s waistcoat and he merely nods. If Ian sees the tears glistening on his cheeks when he pulls away, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

 

\--

 

If there's one thing to come out of this that Ian loves, it's that he never has to leave Marshall to sleep in the cellar again. He can go to sleep wrapped around Marshall, and he can wake up just the same. Marshall never pushes him away, but he never initiates the contact either, only responding once Ian has touched him. Ian wonders if it's just because he's still adjusting to his new body, his senses. He hopes so.

Marshall still hasn't show any sign of despising Ian, of hating him for how he forever changed Marshall. Ian had taken William's words to heart, braced himself for it, but the bad feelings never come. But still, the thought nags at him when, by all rights, he should just be enjoying having Marshall near and _alive_ and his _forever_.

Ian pulls him closer and Marshall turns on his side, blinking at him. They'd both been on the verge of sleep, the sun almost in the sky. Or they should've been. "Marshall," Ian whispers.

Marshall doesn't answer, just looks at him. He raises his eyebrows when Ian doesn't speak soon enough.

"Do you feel any differently towards me now?" Ian asks. Might as well cut straight to it, he thinks.

Marshall looks confused. "Why would I?" He strokes a thumb across Ian's neck, the hinge of his jaw.

"I changed you," Ian says.

"You saved me," Marshall corrects. He pulls Ian even closer, until it's harder to keep focus on Marshall's face.

Ian closes his eyes, shifting so that their legs are tangled together. "Is that what you think?"

"It's what I believe, yes," Marshall says firmly. He kisses the corner of Ian's mouth, then full on the lips. "Now, sleep."

Ian kisses him back once, twice more, and then he is falling asleep.

 

\--

 

Ian wakes up to the smell of smoke, and his head aches fiercely, his eyes unusually difficult to open. He knows he hasn't been asleep long at all. It's still just twilight outside, he can sense it. Just like he knows that the house is burning.

Ian forces himself to sit up, shaking Marshall roughly. Marshall tries to push him away, making half-awake grumbling noises at being woken up so soon.

"Marshall," Ian says sharply. He pulls him to sit, bending over the side of the bed to throw Marshall's coat at him. "The house is _burning_."

That gets Marshall to open his eyes, though he still looks terribly bewildered. Then he seems to smell the smoke because he moves more quickly when Ian pulls him out of the bed.

"What's happening?" Marshall asks, watching as Ian rips off the boards covering the windows, then opens the window hurriedly. It's light enough outside that Ian's skin itches with it, his eyes ache, and Marshall actually backs away.

"The war's finally come," Ian says, and he has to wrap his hands around Marshall's arms, push and pull him through the window with Ian. They climb from it and jump to the ground, sparing only a fascinated second to see the flames through the downstairs windows, the smoke billowing from them. There are gunshots and the sounds of cannons at work not too far off.

"Run," Ian says, hand wrapping tightly around Marshall's. Marshall follows him.

It isn't until they're out through the gate, halfway off the road that will take them through the forest that Marshall stops suddenly, yanking Ian backwards.

"Cash, we forgot _Cash_ ," Marshall hisses. He looks so panicked that Ian actually takes a step back in the direction of the house before shaking his head.

"We can't Marshall," he says, and Marshall's face screws up. "We wouldn't make it before the sun rose! Do you want to burn in the light?"

"You can't just expect me to run without him!" Marshall shouts. He tries to push Ian away.

"You don't see me running for William and Gabriel, do you?" Ian counters. That seems to give Marshall pause, but then he just renews his struggles.

"I'm not leaving him there," Marshall says, and Ian yanks him forward by the arm hard enough that he almost falls to the ground.

"You don't have a _choice_ ," Ian says. He grips Marshall's other bicep, but Marshall is actually fighting him, cursing him and still trying to go in the other direction. He wonders if he could knock Marshall out, drag him to the woods. "Goddamn it, Marshall, you almost died once," he hisses, "I'll kill you myself before I let you cause your own death."

Marshall looks distressed, eyes wet, but he finally starts moving with Ian again, starts running. Still, Ian doesn't let go of him until they're safely out of the light. They run and run until the thicket of trees block out most of the sun.

Marshall bends over once they've stopped, hands covering his face. Then he's standing up, kicking at the ground, the trunk of a tree, almost screaming with his anger. Ian drops to the ground, swallowing a sour taste. He feels sick, knowing he should be out right now, sleeping while the sun is awake.

They both start when two new people walk out from behind a tree. Ian's wondering why he didn't hear, wondering if it's someone coming to fight, but then he's actually looking at who's in front of them.

"William," he breathes, shooting from the ground and into his arms. William catches him, hands soothing his hair away from his face, kissing his forehead, his cheek.

"I thought you'd left," Ian mumbles into his collarbone. William smells like smoke, like he just came from the thick of the battle. When Ian looks up at him, there are ashes smudged across his cheekbones, but he looks unharmed.

"I had left," William says. He glances behind Ian, before looking back at him. "I came back when I realized there was battle coming here. Saw the house burning, but we followed your scent here."

Ian nods, stepping away from William again. He moves towards Marshall, where he's eyeing the two standing across from them with interest. Ian can't blame him. He doesn't pull away when Ian twines their fingers together.

Gabriel grins at them around his fangs, stepping into the space Ian left. He drapes an arm across William's shoulders.

"Tavern's down," he informs them. "We should find some place to hide from the sun, and soon." 

"I think we should leave for Europe again," William says, turning his face to press his cheek to Gabriel's, and Ian glances away.

Ian nods again, thinking hard of where they can go for the day, when another person stumbles from behind a tree. Cash has cuts across his face, arms cradling a distressed Sophia to his chest. He's breathing hard, eyes flicking between all of them before stopping on Marshall.

Marshall flings himself at Cash, nearly causing them both to fall to the dirty forest floor. Marshall buries his face against Cash's neck, and Ian tenses, but he doesn't seem distracted by that in the least. Cash clutches him back, letting Sophia jump to the ground. Ian picks her up.

Marshall mumbles something into Cash's shoulder that Ian can't quite catch, but it’s weak and shaky sounding, both hands digging into Cash’s arms. "I saw you running this way," Cash says. "I followed." Ian imagines him trying to keep up with Ian and Marshall's unnatural speed, worrying that they might get too far away before he could catch up. Marshall finally steps back, hands to Cash's shoulders, then cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together. There are tears brimming in Marshall’s eyes before he closes them, rubbing back and forth a little, breathing Cash’s scent deeply.

Ian strokes a hand down Sophia's back, murmuring nonsense at her, trying to calm her. It mostly works. 

"We need to leave," William says, looking uninterested in the emotional reunion Marshall and Cash seem to have going on. "Now."

“And go where?” Marshall asks, turning a little.

“For now,” William says, gesturing back at the trees, “many of us need to seek refuge from the sun. After that Gabriel and I will head for Europe.” William purposefully settles his gaze on Ian, who nods a little back at him. Ian sees Marshall tense, hands still on Cash.

“We can’t _leave_ ,” Marshall says.

William’s eyes narrow and he rubs distractedly at his cheek, bringing his fingers back black with ash. “There is nothing here for you now, Master Marshall. You would do well to stick with your kind.”

Gabriel starts pulling William along, even further into the forest, and William goes. Ian follows them with Sophia curled against his chest, looking back over his shoulder, to nod at Marshall, get him moving again. Marshall doesn't see it, though, as he's staring back over his own shoulder at Cash.

 

|| **epilogue** ||

 

Ian keeps his eyes on William. The lights of this venue flash just a little too fast to be comfortable but aren’t bright enough to make him cringe. William and Gabriel stand heads over most people, still. They were of unnatural height in their own time and still tower over others.

Ian is content with his short stature, pulling Marshall in closer and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Marshall smiles and Ian feels his hand scratch up through the back of his hair. 

On the floor, William tosses his head back, wrapping his lanky arms around Gabriel’s shoulders, eyes closed and smiling as Gabriel leans in to suck at his throat.

“They’re being discrete,” Marshall practically shouts over the music into Ian’s ear.

Ian pulls Marshall down into a kiss of his own as the band playing winds down the song and the singer, a short young man with hair Ian can sympathize with smiles into his microphone.

“Thank you, we’ve got one more for you and then we’ll be back there selling merch. Come say hey, come take pictures, come tell us we suck,” there’s some laughter and the kid laughs too, his smile illuminating his face, “come hang out. Last one!”

The drum beat kicks up and several shouts go up as the boy begins singing again. Ian tilts his head; he’s got a nice voice. Not as nice as William’s, but then, few things are as sweet in Ian’s mind.

Marshall reaches out and squeezes Cash’s shoulder. He’s been standing in front of them with a glass that’s been half-empty since the band had been setting up their equipment, staring at the stage.

“Are you all right?” Marshall shouts.

Cash looks back briefly over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he gestures up at the stage, at the singer, “I just—I like it.”

Ian practically snorts and Marshall taps the back of his head with his hand when Cash goes back to staring.

“He’s nearly salivating,” Ian says directly into Marshall’s ear.

Marshall turns, taking Ian’s face in both hands and presses their lips together. Ian pulls him in closer by the soft material of his shirt, opening his mouth and kissing back.

“Let him stare,” Marshall says when he pulls back, stroking both of his thumbs against Ian’s bottom lip.

Ian looks back at the stage and, it’s hard to tell as it always looks as though band members are staring directly at you, but he thinks maybe the singer is looking right at Cash.


End file.
